Page:The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.djvu/305

“Happy,” replied Lazare, “what do you call happy? How can you call a passion, which brings a man to the condition in which Jacques is at this moment, happiness? Show him a masterpiece and he would not even turn his eyes to look at it; and I am sure that to see his mistress once again he would walk on a Titian or a Raphael. My mistress is immortal and will never deceive me. She dwells in the Louvre, and her name is Joconde.”

Whilst Lazare was about to continue his theories on art and sentiment, it was announced that it was time to start for the church.

After a few prayers the funeral procession moved on to the cemetery. As it was All Souls’ Day an immense crowd filled it. Many people turned to look at Jacques walking bareheaded in the rear of the hearse.

“Poor fellow,” said one, “it is his mother, no doubt.”

“It is his father,” said another.

“It is his sister,” was elsewhere remarked.

A poet who had come there to study the varying expressions of regret at this festival of recollections celebrated once a year amidst November fogs, alone guessed on seeing him pass that he was following the funeral of his mistress.

When they came to the grave the Bohemians ranged themselves about it bareheaded, Jacques stood close to the edge, his friend the doctor holding him by the arm.

The grave-diggers were in a hurry and wanted to get things over quickly.

“There is to be no speechifying,” said one of them. “Well, so much the better. Heave, mate, that’s it.”

The coffin taken out of the hearse was lowered into the grave. One man withdrew the ropes and then with one of his mates took a shovel and began to cast in the earth.