"Morel! Morel, give Adèle to me!" cried the unhappy mother, extending her arms towards him; "she is not dead,—it is not possible! Let me have her, and I shall be able to warm her in my arms."
The curiosity of the i***t was excited by observing the pertinacity with which the bailiffs kept close to the lapidary, who would not part with the body of his child. She ceased her yells and cries, and, rising from her mattress, approached gently, protruded her hideous, senseless countenance over Morel's shoulder, staring in vacant wonder at the pale corpse of her grandchild, the features of the i***t retaining their usual expression of stupid sullenness. At the end of a few minutes, she uttered a sort of horrible yawning noise, almost resembling the roar of a famished animal; then, hurrying back to
