for the upward flight of prayers the motley crowd of

Madame Doulce, Ellen Midi, Duvernet, Herschell, Falempin, Stella, Marie-Claire, Louise Dalle, Fagette, Nanteuil, kneeling, robed in black, like elegiac figures. Some of the women were reading their missals. Some were weeping. All of them brought to the coffin of

ies of the Kyrie eleison; the priest kissed

us vob

in the crowd at

r has a f

agette. "To look as though she's in mour

Constantin Marc, Dr. Trublet was, in subdued tones,

on billiard cues, and are thereby making an offering of lamp oil instead of virgin wax to the Lord. The pious men who dwell in the sanctuar

he epistle side of the altar

e dormientibus, ut non contrisemimi,

t of Florentin?" inqui

be no worse in i

Trublet by the

scientific man, as a physiologist, you see any se

busy and practical man in n

nversing in a tree. One of them said, 'The souls of birds are immortal,' 'There can be no doubt of it,' replied the other. 'But it is inconceivable that

"when I hear the organ, I am

ernam dona

nave, under the porch, and in the choir. Like the Diable boiteux he must, bestriding his crutch, have soared above the heads of the congregation, to pass as he di

t he whispered into the ears

dear Romilly, we rehearse the new man to-day at two o'clock. See to it that Regnard has the script of his part, and that he knows how to climb on to the roof. Let us hope he won't kick the bucket on our hands like Chevalier. What if he, too, were to commit suicide! You needn't laugh. There's an evil spell on certain parts. Thus, in my Marino Falieri, the gondolier

een buried in accordance with his desire at Port-Royal-des-Champs, at the foot of Monsieur Hamon's grave, and that, after the destruction of the abbey and the violation of the tombs, the body of Messire Jean Racine, the King's secretary, Groom of the Chamber, had been transferred, all unhonoured; to Saint-éti

ame of Racine was effaced by the shoes of the peasants. The fra

curious facts and amusing anecdotes, breathing life into history and endowing arch?ology with a living interest. His admirati

vir Johannes Racine. It is not true! They make honest Boileau's epitaph lie. The body of Racine is not in this spot. It was la

ins. No praise can be too great for Lenoir, who, in

than the first, transformed the history of Pascal's life into a terrible yet amusing d

y cares and profane desires the

upebit e

surget

ti resp

il, who is pretty and intelligent, get hersel

f the feminine he

rettier when she

riam ab

onem ex

que spem

be off t

nyone who know

as-been. He blow

arie Falempin. I can tell you she was

ves locu

dis me s

in part

that he blew out his brains? A lit

he wine and the water

tanti? dignitatem mir

killed himself because Nanteuil wo

she loved another. The obsession of genetic ima

Socrates," said Pradel. "He killed himself t

the place where I live, Saint-Bartholomé, while a threshing-machine was at work, a thirteen-year-old boy shoved his arm into the gear; it was crushed up to the shoulde

before, and she thought he had returned because the priests had not yet bidden him to rest in peace. Then, reflecting that one day she, too, would die, and would, like him, be laid in a coffin, beneath a black pall, she shuddered with horror and closed her eyes. The idea of life was so strong within her t

ttomless pit. Deliver them from the lion's jaws. Let them not be plunged into hell, and let them not fall into the outer darkness,

shaken by a child. Then, after the last Gospel, when, the service being over, the priest, attended by his acolytes, approached the catafalque to the chanting of the Libera, a sense of relief was experienced by the crowd, and they began to jostle one another a little in order to file past the coffin. The

Falempin, "that Nanteuil is goin

not po

tract is

she man

e," replied Ellen, who proceeded t

Falempin, "she i

cheek of her own to show he

n extraordinary piece of

truth in it He didn't commit suicide at all. And the proof o

?" inquire

rprised him with Nant

e, c

u that I am accu

were becoming anim

ere, you wick

receipts are fal

proposed by seventeen Deputies, nine of w

ocquet fellow isn't the man for you.

at colleges sought the faces of celebrities; the little factory girls from the neighbouring workshops, standing in couples with arms round each other's waists, contemplated the actresses' dresses. And standing against the porch on their aching

front of the doors, and was chatting wi

hat I was truly sorry to see him in such a state; that every time such a thing happened I was greatly upset by it; that I was a woman of standing, I had settled my life, and could do nothing for him. He was desperate. He informed me that he was leaving for Constantinople, that he would never return. He couldn't make up his mind either to remain or to go away. He fell ill. Nanteuil, who thought I loved him and wanted to keep him, did all in her power to get him away

s, came slowly down the steps, indulging herself in the

er bosom, and with a beautiful gesture of Christian char

s medal. It has been blessed by the Po

rowing young again since she had renewed her experience of

alier!" he

ut he showed a lack of tact. A man of the world does not co

Chevalier's fellow-players, the employés of the theatre, the director, Dr. Socrates, Constantin Marc, a few journalists and a few inquisitive onlookers followed

the hearse the mourners were

y is the dev

Half an hour

il is engaged at th

ay?" Constantin Marc

to-night; I am playing to-morrow; on Sunday I play both afternoon and evening. Work is never ove

poet, laying his hand

going well

play is bad and falls flat, all that we have put into it, our work, our talent, a bit of our own life, collapses with it. And the number of 'frosts' I'

? Do you think it never happens that actors, by their carelessness or clumsiness, ruin a work which was meant to reach the heights? And do not we also, like C?sar'

. "In every undertaking, everywhere and

seen his lyric drama, Pandolphe et Clarimonde, come hop

orced to obey, which we are proud to worship. It is injustice, holy injustice, august injustice. It is everywhere blessed under

t you have just said!" re

titors, a natural, unjust and legitimate desire. Do you know of anything more stupid or more odious than the sort of people we have seen demanding justice? Public opinion, which is not,

aid Meunier,

t of God Himself. The doctrine of original sin would alone suffice to make me

liever?" asked Rom

rtholomé, I go to Mass every Sunday and feast day, and I have never once listened to the exposition of the Gospel by the curé

the mystic's beard, was sayin

ey made me climb up to the amphitheatre. I could see the Deputies swarming like black insects at the bottom of a pit. Suddenly a stumpy little man mounted the tribune. He looked as if he were carrying a sack of coals on his back. He threw out his arms and clenched his fists. By Jove, he was comical! He had a Southern accent, and his delivery was full of defects. He spoke of the workers, of the proletariat, of social justice. It was magn

Saint-Michel, a journalist ca

e Ligny was at one time m

a fortnight ago he asked me, in the theatre, 'Who is tha

iating humanity. I am amazed, on the other hand, by the number of decent people I come across. It is enough to make one incline to the belief that

mean this both literally and metaphorically-I have always come across some unsuspected baseness. Were society suddenl

a photographer who dressed like an astrologer. A crazy old fellow, always sending one customer the portrait of another.

s become

krupt and ha

y the opportunity of obtaining information as to the immortality of the soul and the fate o

d like t

r. Socrate

ere is no essential difference between the two. Our highest thoughts and our most comprehensive systems will never be anything more than the magnificent extension of the ideas contained i

mentally rehearsing the speech which

ss-plots which overflow the Avenue de l'Observatoire, the

emarked u

believe that, if it is respectable to die, every on

alier's death. Durville, mysteriously, an

ith Nanteuil. He fired seven revolver shots at him. Two bullets struck our unfortunate comrade

teuil w

slig

ur de Ligny

nd rightly so. I have, however, t

ed in spreading various reports. Some felt sure

cceeded in wounding himself. The doctor said that if he had been attended to in ti

oulce said t

hbed. I always go down on my knees and pray. I at

fortunate!" re

of the dead. On their right stretched the yards of the marble-workers, the florists' shops which supplied wreaths for funerals, displays of potted flowers, and the economical furniture of tombs, zinc flower-stands, wreaths of immortelles in cement, and guardian angels in plaster. On their left,

. The mourners read the famous names on some of the tombs, or gazed at the statue of a young girl, seated, book in hand. Old Maury deciphered, in the inscriptions, the age of the deceased. Short lives, and even more lives o

. She was no longer young, having been on the stage for half a century. Delage, with his twenty-five years, looked upon her as prodigiously old. Yet, as he whispered into her ear, he felt excited, infatuated, he became sincere, he really desired her, out of perverse curiosity, because he wanted to do somethin

row path bordered with dwarf cypre

res et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Jerusalem, Chorus Angelorum

They lost the coffin and found it again. Nanteuil evinced a certain eagerness in her pursuit of it, anxious and abrupt, her prayer-book in her hand, freeing her skirt as it caught on the railings, and brushing past the withered wreaths which lef

two metres granted for five years. Romilly, on behalf of the actors of the Odéon, had paid the cemetery board 300 francs-to be exact, 301 fr. 80 c

ave. And the priest and the boy c

ernam dona

erpetua l

scat in

me

elium defunctorum, per miserico

me

ofundi

ood watching it all, the prayers, the spadefuls of earth, the sprinkling; then, kneeling

speech. But the Théatre de l'Odéon could not allow a young

the great and true-hearted dramatic fam

ned actively, with their ears, lips, eyes, arms, and legs. Each listened in his own manner, with nobili

actor, who, in the course of his only too brief career, had s

er was on the verge of success. The sacred flame was his. There are those who have asked, what was the cause of so cruel an end? Let us not seek for that cause. Chevalier died of his art; he died of dramatic fever. He died consumed by the flame which is slowly consuming all of us. Alas, the

mourners' tears. The actors were weeping with

t alone in the cemetery with Constantin Marc,

e beneath these stones. Here is the lawgiver who made the law to which I submit to-day; the architect who built my house, the poet who created the illusions which still disturb us; the orator who swayed us before our birth. Here are all the artisans of our knowledge, true or false, of our wisdom and of our follies. There they lie, the in

world, freedom of thought; you submit to tradition. You consent to the ancient error, the good old-fashioned ignorance, the venerab

dreamed the dream of life. Let us in our turn dream this dream with kindness and joy, if it be possible, and let us go to lunch. I am taking you to a little tavern in the Rue Vavin, kept by Clémence, who cooks only one dish, but a marvellous one at that, the Castelnaudary cassoulet, not to be confused with the cassoulet prepared in the Carcassonne fashion, which is merely a leg of mutton with haricot beans. The cassoulet of Castelnaudary comprises pickled goose legs, haricot beans that have been previously bleached, b