t of tears, to bid a long
adieu to the wife of his friend, to kiss, for the first time, the icy
brow of the woman he had tacitly made his sister.

All was silence. Here death was neither terrible as in the churches, nor
pompous as it makes its way along the streets; no, it was death in the
home, a tender death; here were pomps of the heart, tears drawn from the
eyes of all. Jules sat down beside Jacquet and pressed his hand; then,
without uttering a word, all these persons remained as they were till
morning.

When daylight paled the tapers, Jacquet, foreseeing the painful scenes
which would then take place, drew Jules away into another room. At this
moment the husband looked at the father, and Ferragus looked at
Jules. The two sorrows arraigned each other, measured each other, and
comprehended each other in that look. A flash of fury shone for an
instant in the eyes of Ferragus.

"You killed her," thought he.

"Why was I distrusted?" seemed the answer of the husband.

The scene was one that might have passed between two tigers recognizing
the futility of a struggle and, after a moment's hesitation, turning
away, without even a roar.

"Jacquet," said Jules, "have you attended to everything?"

"Yes, to everything," replied his friend, "but a man had forestalled me
who had ordered and paid for all."

"He tears his daughter from me!" cried the husband, with the violence of
despair.

Jules rushed back to his wife's room; but the father was there no
longer. Clemence had now been placed in a leaden coffin, and workmen
were employed in soldering the cover. Jules returned, horrified by the
sight; the sound of the hammers the men were using made him mechanically
burst into tears.

"Jacquet," he said, "out of this dreadful night one idea has come to
me, only one, but one I must make a reality at any price. I cannot let
Clemence stay in any cemetery in Paris. I wish to burn her,--to gather
her ashes and keep her with me. Say nothing of this, but manage on my
behalf to have it done. I am going to _her_ chamber, where I shall stay
until the time has come to go. You alone may come in there to tell me
what you have done. Go, and spare nothing."

During the morning, Madame Jules, after lying in a mortuary chapel at
the door of her house, was taken to Saint-Roch. The church was hung with
black throughout. The sort of luxury thus displayed had drawn a crowd;
for in Paris all things are sights, even true grief. There are peop