Profusely Illustrated

The room was empty. Emptied. Death creates a vacuum otherwise and better than does an air-pump. The bed-sheets outlined the face in relief, like clay that has barely been touched by the sculptor.
With his outstretched hand and rigid arm, Culafroy lifts the sheets. The corpse was still there. He drew near so as to be less frightened. He dared touch the face and even kiss the eyelids, which were as round and icy as agate marbles. The body seemed fecundated by reality. It was uttering the truth.