rave. The place and the time were
sad. Under a cloudy sky the little yew-trees, swayed by the wind, threw
down their burdens of melted snow. The by-standers had formed a circle,
and were watching the grave-diggers, who were lowering the coffin by
cords. Near a cross-bearer, whose short surplice permitted the bottom of
his trousers to be seen, the priest waited with a finger in his book;
and, having grasped the rim of his hat under his left arm, the orator of
the Society of Men of Letters already held in his black-gloved hand the
funeral oration, hastily patched up by the aid of a comrade over a
couple of glasses at the corner of a cafe table.

Suddenly, as the priest began his Latin prayers, Doctor Arnould seized
me by the arm and whispered in my ear,

"You know that he killed himself?"

I looked at him with astonishment. But he pointed to the group in black,
composed of Madame Miraz and her daughter, who were sobbing under their
long veils and clasping each other in a tragic embrace, and he added,

"For them. Yes, for six months he threw all his medicines in the fire,
and designedly committed all sorts of imprudences. He confessed it to me
before his death. I had not understood it at all--I, who had expected to
prolong his life at least three years by creosote. At last the other
night, when it was freezing cold, he left his window open, as if by
forgetfulness, and was taken with bleeding at the lungs. Yes, that he
might leave bread for those two women. The cure does not dream that he
is blessing a suicide. But what of it, my good fellow? Miraz is in the
paradise of the brave. The details of such a death. Eh? It is tougher
than the passage of the Bridge of Arcole."

[Illustration]

A DRAMATIC FUNERAL.

[Illustration: A DRAMATIC FUNERAL]

For twenty-five years he had played the role of the villain at the
Boulevard du Crime,[A] and his harsh voice, his nose like an eagle's
beak, his eye with its savage glitter, had made him a good player of
such parts. For twenty-five years, dressed in the cloak and encircled by
the fawn-colored leather belt of Mordaunt, he had retreated with the
step of a wounded scorpion before the sword of D'Artagnan; draped in the
dirty Jewish gown of Rodin, he had rubbed his dry hands together,
muttering the terrible "Patience, patience!" and, curled on the chair of
the Duc d'Este, he had said to Lucretia Borgia, with a sufficiently
infernal glance, "Take care and make no mistake. Th