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"And then she died. How? I do not know; I no longer know



anything. But one evening she came home wet, for it was raining

heavily, and the next day she coughed, and she coughed for about



a week, and took to her bed. What happened I do not remember now,

but doctors came, wrote, and went away. Medicines were brought,



and some women made her drink them. Her hands were hot, her

forehead was burning, and her eyes bright and sad. When I spoke



to her, she answered me, but I do not remember what we said. I

have forgotten everything, everything, everything! She died, and



I very well remember her slight, feeble sigh. The nurse said:

'Ah!' and I understood, I understood!



"I knew nothing more, nothing. I saw a priest, who said: 'Your

mistress?' and it seemed to me as if he were insulting her. As



she was dead, nobody had the right to say that any longer, and I

turned him out. Another came who was very kind and tender, and I



shed tears when he spoke to me about her.

"They consulted me about the funeral, but I do not remember



anything that they said, though I recollected the coffin, and the

sound of the hammer when they nailed her down in it. Oh! God,



God!

"She was buried! Buried! She! In that hole! Some people



came--female friends. I made my escape and ran away. I ran, and

then walked through the streets, went home, and the next day



started on a journey.

* * * * * * *



"Yesterday I returned to Paris, and when I saw my room again--our

room, our bed, our furniture, everything that remains of the life



of a human being after death--I was seized by such a violent

attack of fresh grief, that I felt like opening the window and



throwing myself out into the street. I could not remain any

longer among these things, between these walls which had inclosed



and sheltered her, which retained a thousand atoms of her, of her

skin and of her breath, in their imperceptible crevices. I took



up my hat to make my escape, and just as I reached the door, I

passed the large glass in the hall, which she had put there so



that she might look at herself every day from head to foot as she

went out, to see if her toilette looked well, and was correct and



pretty, from her little boots to her bonnet.

"I stopped short in front of that looking-glass in which she had



so often been reflected--so often, so often, that it must have

retained her reflection. I was standing there. trembling, with my



eyes fixed on the glass--on that flat, profound, empty

glass--which had contained her entirely, and had possessed her as



much as I, as my passionate looks had. I felt as if I loved that

glass. I touched it; it was cold. Oh! the recollection! sorrowful



mirror, burning mirror, horrible mirror, to make men suffer such

torments! Happy is the man whose heart forgets everything that it



has contained, everything that has passed before it, everything

that has looked at itself in it, or has been reflected in its



affection, in its love! How I suffer!

"I went out without knowing it, without wishing it, and toward



the cemetery. I found her simple grave, a white marble cross,

with these few words:



" 'She loved, was loved, and died.'

"She is there, below, decayed! How horrible! I sobbed with my



forehead on the ground, and I stopped there for a long time, a

long time. Then I saw that it was getting dark, and a strange,



mad wish, the wish of a despairing lover, seized me. I wished to

pass the night, the last night, in weeping on her grave. But I



should be seen and driven out. How was I to manage? I was

cunning, and got up and began to roam about in that city of the



dead. I walked and walked. How small this city is, in comparison

with the other, the city in which we live. And yet, how much more



numerous the dead are than the living. We want high houses, wide

streets, and much room for the four generations who see the



daylight at the same time, drink water from the spring, and wine

from the vines, and eat bread from the plains.



"And for all the generations of the dead, for all that ladder of

humanity that has descended down to us, there is scarcely



anything, scarcely anything! The earth takes them back, and

oblivion effaces them. Adieu!



"At the end of the cemetery, I suddenly perceived that I was in

its oldest part, where those who had been dead a long time are



mingling with the soil, where the crosses themselves are decayed,

where possibly newcomers will be put to-morrow. It is full of



untended roses, of strong and dark cypress-trees, a sad and

beautiful garden, nourished on human flesh.






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