Felicite reached the second floor. Already at the threshold, she
caught sight of Virginia lying on her back, with clasped hands,
her mouth open and her head thrown back, beneath a black crucifix
inclined toward her, and stiff curtains which were less white than
her face. Madame Aubain lay at the foot of the couch, clasping it
with her arms and uttering groans of agony. The Mother Superior
was standing on the right side of the bed. The three candles on
the bureau made red blurs, and the windows were dimmed by the fog
outside. The nuns carried Madame Aubain from the room.
For two nights, Felicite never left the corpse. She would repeat
the same prayers, sprinkle holy water over the sheets, get up,
come back to the bed and contemplate the body. At the end of the
first vigil, she noticed that the face had taken on a yellow
tinge, the lips grew blue, the nose grew pinched, the eyes were
sunken. She kissed them several times and would not have been
greatly astonished had Virginia opened them; to souls like these
the supernatural is always quite simple. She washed her, wrapped
her in a shroud, put her into the casket, laid a wreath of flowers
on her head and arranged her curls.
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