Then the gaoler re-entered his lodge, and did not insist any further upon a useless surveillance. The penalty of imprisonment was not applied in Greek Egypt, and the little white house that was placed under the care of the gentle old man served merely for the reception of culprits condemned to death. In the interval between executions it remained almost deserted. The moment the great key entered the lock, Rhodis arrested her friend’s hand: “I do not know whether I dare see her,” she said. “I loved her well, Myrto . . . I am afraid . . . Go in first, will you?” Myrtocleia pushed open the door; but as soon as she had cast a glance into the chamber she cried: “Do not enter, Rhodis! Wait for me here.” “Oh! What is there? You are afraid too . . . What is there on the bed? Is she not dead?” “Yes, wait for me . . . I will tell you . . . Stay in the corridor and do not look.” The body was still in the ecstatic attitude in which Demetrius had arranged it for his Statue of Immortal Life. But the transports of extreme joy confine upon the convulsions of extreme pain, and Myrtocleia asked herself what atrocious sufferings, what agonies had produced such an upheaval in the corpse. ill-085 She approached the bed on tiptoe. The thread of blood continued to flow from the diaphanous nostril. The skin of the body was perfectly white; the pale tips of the breasts receded like delicate navels; not a single rose-coloured reflection gave life to the ephemeral recumbent statue; but some emerald-coloured spots that tinted the smooth belly signified that millions of new lives were germinating in the scarcely-cold flesh, and were demanding “the right of succession!” Myrtocleia took the dead arm and laid it flat along the hip. She tried also to pull out the left leg; but the knee was almost rigid, and she did not succeed in pulling it out completely. “Rhodis,” she said, in a troubled voice, “come; you can enter now.” The trembling child penetrated into the chamber. Her features contracted, her eyes opened wide. As soon as they felt that there were two of them, they fell into one another’s arms and burst into long-drawn sobs. “Poor Chrysis! Poor Chrysis!” repeated the child. They kissed one another on the cheek with a desperate affection from which all sensuality had disappeared and the taste of the tears upon their lips filled their forlorn little souls with bitterness. They wept, and wailed, they looked at one another other with anguish, and sometimes they spoke both together in a hoarse voice of agony, and their words ended in sobs. “How we loved her! She was not a friend for us. She was a little mother for both of us . . .” Rhodis repeated: “Like a little mother . . .” And Myrto, dragging her to the side of the dead woman, said in a low voice: “Kiss her.” They both bent down, and placed their hands upon the bed, as, with fresh sobs, they touched the icy forehead with their lips.