edge of the grave. He held himself very
upright, in a tense, almost aggressive way, and looked, from time to
time, into the grave with an expression of anger and almost defiance. Of
what was he thinking? In that attitude, which seemed to be a revolt
against the destiny which had come to his friend, Bernardet read a kind
of hardening of the will against an emotion which might become excessive
and telltale. He was not, as yet, persuaded of the guiltiness of this
man, but he did not find in that expression of defiance the tenderness
which ought to be shown for a friend--a lifelong friend, as Dantin had
said that Rovere was. And then the more he examined him--there, for
example, seeing his dark silhouette clearly defined in front of the
dense white of a neighboring column--the more the aspect of this man
corresponded with that of the vision transfixed in the dead man's eye.
Yes, it was the same profile of a trooper, his hand upon his hip, as if
resting upon a rapier. Bernardet blinked his eyes in order to better see
that man. He perceived a man who strongly recalled the vague form found
in that retina, and his conviction came to the aid of his instinct,
gradually increased, and became, little by little, invincible,
irresistible. He repeated the address which this man had given him:
"Jacques Dantin, Rue de Richelieu, 114." He would make haste to give
that name to M. Ginory, and have a citation served upon him. Why should
this Dantin leave Paris? What was his manner of living? his means of
existence? What were the passions, the vices, of the man standing there
with the austere mien of a Huguenot, in front of the open grave?

Bernardet saw that, despite his strong will and his wish to stand there
impassive, Jacques Dantin was troubled when, with a heavy sound, the
casket glided over the cords down into the grave. He bit the ends of his
mustache and his gloved hand made several irresistible, nervous
movements. And the look cast into that grave! The look cast at that
casket lying in the bottom of that grave! On that casket was a plate
bearing the inscription: "Louis Pierre Rovere." That mute look, rapid
and grief-stricken, was cast upon that open casket, which contained the
body--the gash across its throat, dissected, mutilated; the face with
those dreadful eyes, which had been taken from their orbits, and, after
delivering up their secret, replaced!

They now defiled past the grave, and Dantin, the first, with a hand
which tr