He seemed to wish to dissuade me from this, but I would not listen to him, rushed towards the room where the corpse was lying, and drawing out the key, I shut and locked the door, just as Theodore was about to enter.
Here stood the star-spangled coffin, surrounded by massive silver-sconces, the candles in which, with their long wicks, threw a gloomy light upon the black hangings of the apartment.
I fell upon my knees by the side of the coffin and grasped one of my poor sister's hands--it was clenched!--I shuddered, and let it go again, it fell heavily back upon the shroud. A veil was thrown over the face; I wished once more to behold the sweet features; I raised the veil--a distorted, livid countenance grinned at me, the dim, wide extended eyes seemed to wish to pierce through me with their gaze. I grew chill with horror, and dropped the veil. 'Emilie!' I whispered, seized with unutterable anguish. 'It is thee, nevertheless! This frightful head is covered with thy beautiful curls! O God! How death distorts the human face!'
I hurried from the room, it seemed to me as if ghostly spectres stood in every corner, and gazed at me with their rayless eyes--I hardly knew how I got out--but I fancied I heard hollow, scornful laughter behind me.
On the day of the funeral I met old Anna, the companion of my poor sister during her short worldly career; she had been her nurse, and had built her modest hopes and the happiness of her life upon Emilie. Now, she was alone, poor old woman; the object on which all her affections had been centred was gone, and in the future she saw only darkness and misery. As she stood there with her recollections, she resembled an aged tree from times gone by, and which, in a circle of younger and unknown plants, awaits the last storm.
I considered it would be only an annoyance to my brother-in-law if I questioned him concerning the last moments of my beloved sister--but with Anna this would not be the case, I therefore inquired of her.
With the usual garrulity of old age, she now began to describe to me the life of my sister, from the time that I had last seen her; she seemed to find consolation in relating all that she had seen, and had enjoyed, and what she had lost. There often seems nothing which binds aged people to this life but the pleasure of being able to complain--why then should not this faithful old woman be allowed to enjoy this one privilege?