Tombstones
The five friends had finished dinner, five men of the world, mature,rich, three married, the two others bachelors. They met like this everymonth in memory of their youth, and after dinner they chatted until twoo'clock in the morning. Having remained intimate friends, and enjoyingeach other's society, they probably considered these the pleasantestevenings of their lives. They talked on every subject, especially ofwhat interested and amused Parisians. Their conversation was, as in themajority of salons elsewhere, a verbal rehash of what they had read inthe morning papers.One of the most lively of them was Joseph de Bardon, a celibate livingthe Parisian life in its fullest and most whimsical manner. He was not adebauche nor depraved, but a singular, happy fellow, still young, for hewas scarcely forty. A man of the world in its widest and best sense,gifted with a brilliant, but not profound, mind, with much variedknowledge, but no true erudition, ready comprehension without trueunderstanding, he drew from his observations, his adventures, fromeverything he saw, met with and found, anecdotes at once comical andphilosophical, and made humorous remarks that gave him a great reputationfor cleverness in society.He was the after dinner speaker and had his own story each time, uponwhich they counted, and he talked without having to be coaxed.As he sat smoking, his elbows on the table, a petit verre half fullbeside his plate, half torpid in an atmosphere of tobacco blended withsteaming coffee, he seemed to be perfectly at home. He said between twowhiffs:"A curious thing happened to me some time ago.""Tell it to us," they all exclaimed at once."With pleasure. You know that I wander about Paris a great deal, likebook collectors who ransack book stalls. I just look at the sights, atthe people, at all that is passing by and all that is going on."Toward the middle of September--it was beautiful weather--I went out oneafternoon, not knowing where I was going. One always has a vague wish tocall on some pretty woman or other. One chooses among them in one'smental picture gallery, compares them in one's mind, weighs the interestwith which they inspire you, their comparative charms and finally decidesaccording to the influence of the day. But when the sun is very brightand the air warm, it takes away from you all desire to make calls."The sun was bright, the air warm. I lighted a cigar and saunteredaimlessly along the outer boulevard. Then, as I strolled on, it occurredto me to walk as far as Montmartre and go into the cemetery."I am very fond of cemeteries. They rest me and give me a feeling ofsadness; I need it. And, besides, I have good friends in there, thosethat one no longer goes to call on, and I go there from time to time."It is in this cemetery of Montmartre that is buried a romance of mylife, a sweetheart who made a great impression on me, a very emotional,charming little woman whose memory, although it causes me great sorrow,also fills me with regrets--regrets of all kinds. And I go to dreambeside her grave. She has finished with life."And then I like cemeteries because they are immense cities filled tooverflowing with inhabitants. Think how many dead people there are inthis small space, think of all the generations of Parisians who arehoused there forever, veritable troglodytes enclosed in their littlevaults, in their little graves covered with a stone or marked by a cross,while living beings take up so much room and make so much noise--imbeciles that they are"Then, again, in cemeteries there are monuments almost as interesting asin museums. The tomb of Cavaignac reminded me, I must confess withoutmaking any comparison, of the chef d'oeuvre of Jean Goujon: the recumbentstatue of Louis de Breze in the subterranean chapel of the Cathedral ofRouen. All modern and realistic art has originated there, messieurs.This dead man, Louis de Breze, is more real, more terrible, more likeinanimate flesh still convulsed with the death agony than all thetortured corpses that are distorted to-day in funeral monuments."But in Montmartre one can yet admire Baudin's monument, which has adegree of grandeur; that of Gautier, of Murger, on which I saw the otherday a simple, paltry wreath of immortelles, yellow immortelles, broughtthither by whom? Possibly by the last grisette, very old and nowjanitress in the neighborhood. It is a pretty little statue by Millet,but ruined by dirt and neglect. Sing of youth, O Murger!"Well, there I was in Montmartre Cemetery, and was all at once filledwith sadness, a sadness that is not all pain, a kind of sadness thatmakes you think when you are in good health, 'This place is not amusing,but my time has not come yet.'"The feeling of autumn, of the warm moisture which is redolent of thedeath of the leaves, and the weakened, weary, anaemic sun increased,while rendering it poetical, the sensation of solitude and of finalitythat hovered over this spot which savors of human mortality."I walked along slowly amid these streets of tombs, where the neighborsdo not visit each other, do not sleep together and do not read thenewspapers. And I began to read the epitaphs. That is the most amusingthing in the world. Never did Labiche or Meilhac make me laugh as I havelaughed at the comical inscriptions on tombstones. Oh, how much superiorto the books of Paul de Kock for getting rid of the spleen are thesemarble slabs and these crosses where the relatives of the deceased haveunburdened their sorrow, their desires for the happiness of the vanishedones and their hope of rejoining them--humbugs!"But I love above all in this cemetery the deserted portion, solitary,full of great yews and cypresses, the older portion, belonging to thosedead long since, and which will soon be taken into use again; the growingtrees nourished by the human corpses cut down in order to bury in rowsbeneath little slabs of marble those who have died more recently."When I had sauntered about long enough to refresh my mind I felt that Iwould soon have had enough of it and that I must place the faithfulhomage of my remembrance on my little friend's last resting place. Ifelt a tightening of the heart as I reached her grave. Poor dear, shewas so dainty, so loving and so white and fresh--and now--if one shouldopen the grave----"Leaning over the iron grating, I told her of my sorrow in a low tone,which she doubtless did not hear, and was moving away when I saw a womanin black, in deep mourning, kneeling on the next grave. Her crape veilwas turned back, uncovering a pretty fair head, the hair in Madonna bandslooking like rays of dawn beneath her sombre headdress. I stayed."Surely she must be in profound grief. She had covered her face with herhands and, standing there in meditation, rigid as a statue, given up toher grief, telling the sad rosary of her remembrances within the shadowof her concealed and closed eyes, she herself seemed like a dead personmourning another who was dead. All at once a little motion of her back,like a flutter of wind through a willow, led me to suppose that she wasgoing to cry. She wept softly at first, then louder, with quick motionsof her neck and shoulders. Suddenly she uncovered her eyes. They werefull of tears and charming, the eyes of a bewildered woman, with whichshe glanced about her as if awaking from a nightmare. She looked at me,seemed abashed and hid her face completely in her hands. Then she sobbedconvulsively, and her head slowly bent down toward the marble. Sheleaned her forehead on it, and her veil spreading around her, covered thewhite corners of the beloved tomb, like a fresh token of mourning.I heard her sigh, then she sank down with her cheek on the marble slaband remained motionless, unconscious."I darted toward her, slapped her hands, blew on her eyelids, while Iread this simple epitaph: 'Here lies Louis-Theodore Carrel, Captain ofMarine Infantry, killed by the enemy at Tonquin. Pray for him.'"He had died some months before. I was affected to tears and redoubledmy attentions. They were successful. She regained consciousness.I appeared very much moved. I am not bad looking, I am not forty. I sawby her first glance that she would be polite and grateful. She was, andamid more tears she told me her history in detached fragments as well asher gasping breath would allow, how the officer was killed at Tonquinwhen they had been married a year, how she had married him for love, andbeing an orphan, she had only the usual dowry."I consoled her, I comforted her, raised her and lifted her on her feet.Then I said:"'Do not stay here. Come.'"'I am unable to walk,' she murmured."'I will support you.'"'Thank you, sir; you are good. Did you also come to mourn for someone?'"'Yes, madame.'"'A dead friend?'"'Yes, madame.'"'Your wife?'"'A friend.'"'One may love a friend as much as they love their wife. Love has nolaw.'"'Yes, madame.'"And we set off together, she leaning on my arm, while I almost carriedher along the paths of the cemetery. When we got outside she faltered:"'I feel as if I were going to be ill.'"'Would you like to go in anywhere, to take something?'"'Yes, monsieur.'"I perceived a restaurant, one of those places where the mourners of thedead go to celebrate the funeral. We went in. I made her drink a cup ofhot tea, which seemed to revive her. A faint smile came to her lips.She began to talk about herself. It was sad, so sad to be always alonein life, alone in one's home, night and day, to have no one on whom onecan bestow affection, confidence, intimacy."That sounded sincere. It sounded pretty from her mouth. I was touched.She was very young, perhaps twenty. I paid her compliments, which shetook in good part. Then, as time was passing, I suggested taking herhome in a carriage. She accepted, and in the cab we sat so close thatour shoulders touched."When the cab stopped at her house she murmured: 'I do not feel equal togoing upstairs alone, for I live on the fourth floor. You have been sogood. Will you let me take your arm as far as my own door?'"I agreed with eagerness. She ascended the stairs slowly, breathinghard. Then, as we stood at her door, she said:"'Come in a few moments so that I may thank you.'"And, by Jove, I went in. Everything was modest, even rather poor, butsimple and in good taste."We sat down side by side on a little sofa and she began to talk againabout her loneliness. She rang for her maid, in order to offer me somewine. The maid did not come. I was delighted, thinking that this maidprobably came in the morning only, what one calls a charwoman."She had taken off her hat. She was really pretty, and she gazed at mewith her clear eyes, gazed so hard and her eyes were so clear that I wasterribly tempted. I caught her in my arms and rained kisses on hereyelids, which she closed suddenly."She freed herself and pushed me away, saying:"'Have done, have done.'"But I next kissed her on the mouth and she did not resist, and as ourglances met after thus outraging the memory of the captain killed inTonquin, I saw that she had a languid, resigned expression that set mymind at rest."I became very attentive and, after chatting for some time, I said:"'Where do you dine?'"'In a little restaurant in the neighborhood:"'All alone?'"'Why, yes.'"'Will you dine with me?'"'Where?'"'In a good restaurant on the Boulevard.'"She demurred a little. I insisted. She yielded, saying by way ofapology to herself: 'I am so lonely--so lonely.' Then she added:"'I must put on something less sombre, and went into her bedroom. Whenshe reappeared she was dressed in half-mourning, charming, dainty andslender in a very simple gray dress. She evidently had a costume for thecemetery and one for the town."The dinner was very enjoyable. She drank some champagne, brightened up,grew lively and I went home with her."This friendship, begun amid the tombs, lasted about three weeks. Butone gets tired of everything, especially of women. I left her underpretext of an imperative journey. She made me promise that I would comeand see her on my return. She seemed to be really rather attached to me."Other things occupied my attention, and it was about a month before Ithought much about this little cemetery friend. However, I did notforget her. The recollection of her haunted me like a mystery, like apsychological problem, one of those inexplicable questions whose solutionbaffles us."I do not know why, but one day I thought I might possibly meet her inthe Montmartre Cemetery, and I went there."I walked about a long time without meeting any but the ordinary visitorsto this spot, those who have not yet broken off all relations with theirdead. The grave of the captain killed at Tonquin had no mourner on itsmarble slab, no flowers, no wreath."But as I wandered in another direction of this great city of the dead Iperceived suddenly, at the end of a narrow avenue of crosses, a couple indeep mourning walking toward me, a man and a woman. Oh, horrors! Asthey approached I recognized her. It was she!"She saw me, blushed, and as I brushed past her she gave me a littlesignal, a tiny little signal with her eye, which meant: 'Do not recognizeme!' and also seemed to say, 'Come back to see me again, my dear!'"The man was a gentleman, distingue, chic, an officer of the Legion ofHonor, about fifty years old. He was supporting her as I had supportedher myself when we were leaving the cemetery."I went my way, filled with amazement, asking myself what this all meant,to what race of beings belonged this huntress of the tombs? Was she justa common girl, one who went to seek among the tombs for men who were insorrow, haunted by the recollection of some woman, a wife or asweetheart, and still troubled by the memory of vanished caresses? Wasshe unique? Are there many such? Is it a profession? Do they paradethe cemetery as they parade the street? Or else was she only impressedwith the admirable, profoundly philosophical idea of exploiting loverecollections, which are revived in these funereal places?"And I would have liked to know whose widow she was on that special day."
zpostcode
Recruit
weather
mreligion
Yellowpages
sport
constellation
shopping
name
game
directory
literature
Word
tour
furnish
Lottery
tftnews
lyrics
News
digital
car
dir
Edu
Finance
