You may go in."
This room was Maurice's bedchamber. The large curtains had been closely
drawn, and tapers were burning near the bed, casting a soft light on the
deceased's face, which appeared very calm, very white, the eyes closed as
if in sleep. Between the clasped hands rested a crucifix, and with the
roses scattered over the sheet the bed was like a couch of springtide.
The odor of the flowers, mingling with that of the burning wax, seemed
rather oppressive amid the deep and tragic stillness. Not a breath
stirred the tall, erect flames of the tapers, burning in the
semi-obscurity, amid which the bed alone showed forth.
When Mathieu and Marianne had gone in, they perceived their
daughter-in-law, Charlotte, behind a screen near the door. Lighted by a
little lamp, she sat there with a sketching-block on her knees, making a
drawing of Maurice's head as it rested among the roses. Hard and
anguish-bringing as was such work for one with so young a heart, she had
nevertheless yielded to the mother's ardent entreaties. And for three
hours past, pale, looking wondrously beautiful, her face showing all the
flower of youth, her blue eyes opening widely under her fine golden hair,
she had been there diligently working, striving to do her best.
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