urning,
a gown with lilac trimmings; and following them, Virginie, Madame
Gaudron, Madame Fauconnier, Mademoiselle Remanjou and the rest. When the
hearse started and slowly descended the Rue de la Goutte-d'Or, amidst
signs of the cross and heads bared, the four helpers took the lead, two
in front, the two others on the right and left. Gervaise had remained
behind to close the shop. She left Nana with Madame Boche and ran to
rejoin the procession, whilst the child, firmly held by the concierge
under the porch, watched with a deeply interested gaze her grandmother
disappear at the end of the street in that beautiful carriage.

At the moment when Gervaise caught up with the procession, Goujet
arrived from another direction. He nodded to her so sympathetically
that she was reminded of how unhappy she was, and began to cry again as
Goujet took his place with the men.

The ceremony at the church was soon got through. The mass dragged
a little, though, because the priest was very old. My-Boots and
Bibi-the-Smoker preferred to remain outside on account of the
collection. Monsieur Madinier studied the priests all the while, and
communicated his observations to Lantier. Those jokers, though so glib
with their Latin, did not even know a word of what they were saying.
They buried a person just in the same way that they would have baptized
or married him, without the least feeling in their heart.

Happily, the cemetery was not far off, the little cemetery of La
Chapelle, a bit of a garden which opened on to the Rue Marcadet. The
procession arrived disbanded, with stampings of feet and everybody
talking of his own affairs. The hard earth resounded, and many would
have liked to have moved about to keep themselves warm. The gaping hole
beside which the coffin was laid was already frozen over, and looked
white and stony, like a plaster quarry; and the followers, grouped
round little heaps of gravel, did not find it pleasant standing in such
piercing cold, whilst looking at the hole likewise bored them. At length
a priest in a surplice came out of a little cottage. He shivered,
and one could see his steaming breath at each _de profundis_ that he
uttered. At the final sign of the cross he bolted off, without the least
desire to go through the service again. The sexton took his shovel,
but on account of the frost, he was only able to detach large lumps of
earth, which beat a fine tune down below, a regular bombardment of the
coffin, an