Monsieur Bournisien was there, and two large candles were burning at the head of the bed, that had been taken out of the alcove.  The druggist, on whom the silence weighed, was not long before he began formulating some regrets about this “unfortunate young woman.” and the priest replied that there was nothing to do now but pray for her.

“Yet,” Homais went on, “one of two things; either she died in a state of grace (as the Church has it), and then she has no need of our prayers; or else she departed impertinent (that is, I believe, the ecclesiastical expression), and then—­”

Bournisien interrupted him, replying testily that it was none the less necessary to pray.

“But,” objected the chemist, “since God knows all our needs, what can be the good of prayer?”

“What!” cried the ecclesiastic, “prayer!  Why, aren’t you a Christian?”

“Excuse me,” said Homais; “I admire Christianity.  To begin with, it enfranchised the slaves, introduced into the world a morality—­”

“That isn’t the question.  All the texts-”

“Oh! oh!  As to texts, look at history; it, is known that all the texts have been falsified by the Jesuits.”

Charles came in, and advancing towards the bed, slowly drew the curtains.

Emma’s head was turned towards her right shoulder, the corner of her mouth, which was open, seemed like a black hole at the lower part of her face; her two thumbs were bent into the palms of her hands; a kind of white dust besprinkled her lashes, and her eyes were beginning to disappear in that viscous pallor that looks like a thin web, as if spiders had spun it over.  The sheet sunk in from her breast to her knees, and then rose at the tips of her toes, and it seemed to Charles that infinite masses, an enormous load, were weighing upon her.

The church clock struck two.  They could hear the loud murmur of the river flowing in the darkness at the foot of the terrace.  Monsieur Bournisien from time to time blew his nose noisily, and Homais’ pen was scratching over the paper.

“Come, my good friend,” he said, “withdraw; this spectacle is tearing you to pieces.”

Charles once gone, the chemist and the cure recommenced their discussions.

“Read Voltaire,” said the one, “read D’Holbach, read the ’Encyclopaedia’!”

“Read the ‘Letters of some Portuguese Jews,’” said the other; “read ’The Meaning of Christianity,’ by Nicolas, formerly a magistrate.”

They grew warm, they grew red, they both talked at once without listening to each other.  Bournisien was scandalized at such audacity; Homais marvelled at such stupidity; and they were on the point of insulting one another when Charles suddenly reappeared.  A fascination drew him.  He was continually coming upstairs.

He stood opposite her, the better to see her, and he lost himself in a contemplation so deep that it was no longer painful.

He recalled stories of catalepsy, the marvels of magnetism, and he said to himself that by willing it with all his force he might perhaps succeed in reviving her.  Once he even bent towards he, and cried in a low voice, “Emma!  Emma!” His strong breathing made the flames of the candles tremble against the wall.