Not a face was visible, in the sun, the shade, the orchard, on the steps, or at the windows.  I observed in the garden two rakes lying on some beautiful lilies; they had not been carefully laid down, but dropped in the midst of the flowers, on hearing some cry of distress from the house.

One window was open; the rich curtains showed it to be the room of a woman; the carelessly pushed open blinds proved that an anxious watcher had passed long hours of feverish expectation at the window.  A desolate silence reigned around the house; this silence was fearful, and at an hour of the day when all is life and animation, in harmony with the singing birds and rippling waters.

I ascended the steps, mechanically noticing the beautiful flowers clustering about the railing; flowers take a part in every catastrophe of life.  On the threshold, I forgot myself to think of you, to live with your spirit, to walk with your feet, for my own resolution would have failed me at this fatal moment.

In the vestibule I looked through a half-open folding-door, and, in the funereal darkness, saw some peasantry kneeling and praying.  No head was raised to look at me.  I slowly entered the room with my eyes downcast, and lids swollen with tears I forcibly restrained.  In a recess, lying on a sofa, was something white and motionless, the sight of which froze my blood....  It was—­I cannot write her name, Edgar—­it was she.  My troubled gaze could not discover whether dead or living.  She seemed to be sleeping, with her hair lying carelessly about the pillow, in the disorder of a morning repose.

Near by was a young man-servant, his vest spotted with blood; with face buried in his hands he was weeping bitterly.

Near her head a window was raised to admit the fresh air.  This window opened on an inner courtyard, very gloomy on account of the masses of leaves that seemed to drop from the walls and fill it with sombreness.

Two men dressed in black, with faces more melancholy-looking than their garments, were in this courtyard, talking in low tones; through the window I could only see their heads and shoulders.  I merely glanced at them; my eyes, my sorrow, my hatred, my love were all concentrated upon this woman.  Absorbed by a heart-rending gaze, an instinct rather than idea rooted me to the spot.

I waited for her to recover her senses, to open her eyes, not to add to her anguish by a word or look of mine, but to let her see me standing there, a living, silent accusation.  Some farmer-boys entered with lighted candles, a cross and basin of holy-water.  In the disorder of my mind, I understood nothing, but slowly walked out on the terrace, with the vague idea of breathing a little fresh air and returning.

The serenity of the sky, the brightness of the sun, the green trees, the fragrant flowers, the songs of the birds, offered an ironical contrast to the scene of mourning.  Often does nature refuse to countenance human sorrows, because they are ungrateful to her goodness.  She creates the wonders of heaven to make us happy; we evoke the secrets of hell to torture our souls and bodies.  Nature is right to scorn our self-inflicted sorrows.