ath. For his part,
Monsieur de Ligny, with the object of inspiring me with regret, with
vexation, or what not, perhaps in the hope of making me jealous,
responded very visibly to Nanteuil's advances. And that is how they came
to be together. I was delighted. Nanteuil and I are the best of
friends."

Madame Doulce, hedged in on either side by the onlookers, came slowly
down the steps, indulging herself in the illusion that the crowd was
whispering, "That's Doulce!"

She seized Nanteuil as she was passing, pressed her to her bosom, and
with a beautiful gesture of Christian charity enveloped her in her
mantle, saying through her sobs:

"Try to pray, my child, and accept this medal. It has been blessed by
the Pope. A Dominican Father gave it to me."

Madame Nanteuil, who was a little out of breath, but was growing young
again since she had renewed her experience of love, was the last to come
out. Durville pressed her hand.

"Poor Chevalier!" he murmured.

"His was not a bad character," answered Madame Nanteuil, "but he showed
a lack of tact. A man of the world does not commit suicide in such a
manner. Poor boy, he had no breeding."

The hearse began its journey in the colossal shadow of the Pantheon, and
proceeded down the Rue Soufflet, which is lined on both sides with
booksellers' shops. Chevalier's fellow-players, the employes of the
theatre, the director, Dr. Socrates, Constantin Marc, a few journalists
and a few inquisitive onlookers followed. The clergy and the actresses
took their seats in the mourning coaches. Nanteuil, disregarding Madame
Doulce's advice, followed with Fagette, in a hired coupe.

The weather was fine. Behind the hearse the mourners were conversing in
familiar fashion.

"The cemetery is the devil of a way!"

"Montparnasse? Half an hour at the outside."

"Do you know Nanteuil is engaged at the Comedie-Francaise?"

"Do we rehearse to-day?" Constantin Marc inquired of Romilly.

"To be sure we do, at three o'clock, in the green-room. We shall
rehearse till five. I am playing to-night; I am playing to-morrow; on
Sunday I play both afternoon and evening. Work is never over for us
actors; one is always beginning over again, always putting one's
shoulder to the wheel."

Adolphe Meunier, the poet, laying his hand on his shoulder said:

"Everything going well, Romilly?"

"How are you getting on yourself, Meunier? Always rolling the rock of
Sisyphus. That would be nothing, but success does