clear voice, that you could hear her above all the others.
Catherine said nothing, but walked slowly along with her eyes cast
down. If I could only have called to her she might perhaps have heard
me, but it was bad enough not to join the procession without causing
further scandal. All I can say is,--and there is not an old man in
Pfalzbourg who will assert the contrary,--that Catherine was not the
least beautiful girl in the country, and that Joseph Bertha was not to
be pitied.

She had passed, and the procession halted on the "Place d'armes,"
before the high altar at the right of the church. The priest
officiated, and silence spread all over the city. In the little
streets at the right and the left, it was as quiet as if they could
have seen the priest at the altar, great numbers kneeled, and others
sat down on the steps of the houses, for the heat was excessive, and
many of them had come to town before daylight. This grand sight
impressed me very much, and I prayed for my country and for peace, for
I felt it all in my heart, and I remember that just then I heard under
the shed at the German gate, voices which said very good-humoredly,
"Come, come, give us a little room, my friends."

The procession blocked the way, everybody was stopped, and these voices
disturbed the kneeling multitude. Several persons near the door made
way. The Swiss and the beadle looked on from a distance, and my
curiosity induced me to get a little nearer the steps, when I saw five
or six old soldiers white with dust, bent down and apparently exhausted
with fatigue, making their way along the slope in order to gain the
little rue d'Arsenal, through which they no doubt thought to find the
way clear, it seems as if I could see them now, with their worn-out
shoes and their white gaiters, and their old patched uniforms and
shakos battered by the sun and rain and the hardships of the campaign.
They advanced in file, a little on the grass of the slope in order to
disturb the people who were below as little as possible. One old
fellow with three chevrons, who marched ahead and resembled poor
Sergeant Pinto who was killed near the Hinterthor at Leipzig, made me
feel very sad. He had the same long, gray mustaches, the same wrinkled
cheeks, and the same contented air in spite of all his misfortunes and
sufferings. He had his little bundle on the end of his stick, and
smiling and speaking quite low he said, "Excuse us, gentlemen and
ladies, exc