"Of course, look," said the German, pointing to the back of the room.
On a little white bed lay the corpse of Massimo Granata. The little body broken by the tremendous fall from the precipice, at the skirts of the Pizota, was piously laid out, and covered with a dark red, silk quilt, right to the breast; and the little body of the poor rickety, deformed man scarcely raised the covering. The head had been bandaged, and the pinched yellow countenance was framed by the whiteness of its lines, whose eyes, full of goodness and dreams, were closed for ever; and even the face seemed diminished and like that of a child, dead from some incurable disease endured since birth. The pallid hands, long and fleshless, with knotty fingers, were crossed on the breast, and they still clasped a little bunch of unknown Alpine flowers; they clasped them in a last act of love over the heart that beat no more. Some long strings of mountain flowers had been scattered loosely on the quilt, as if to surround in a garland of flowers the corpse of Massimo Granata. On the simple furniture of the simple room flowers had been placed here and there in big and little vases; some were already withered, which had been gathered two or three days before his death; others, fresher, had been gathered recently, before his last walk. On a night table before the humble little bed there were an ivory crucifix and two candlesticks with two lighted candles—all placed on a white cloth. The two electric lamps of the room had been veiled. Karl Ehbehard, the great consumption doctor, was seated on one side at the foot of the bed, motionless and silent, with bowed head.
"Karl Ehbehard was the first to be told," added Otto von Raabe, shaking his head, fixing the closed, granite-like face of the doctor with his indescribably blue eyes. "He has known him for more than twenty years; he loved him."
"Was his assistance of no avail?" Paul Léon asked very softly.
"Quite useless. Massimo had been dead for ten hours when they brought him here."
"And who brought him?"
"Some shepherds up above," continued Otto von Raabe, his voice breaking with mortal sadness. "Everyone knew him at the Alp Laret, at the Alp Nova, at the Fiori. Everyone used to greet him and speak to him. You know that."
"Everywhere it was so," added Paul Léon, with lowered eyes.
"They saw him pass early in the morning. They warned him that the ascent was rough and dangerous. When, after so many hours, they did not see him descending again, they climbed to look for him."
"Those shepherds are used to that."