death had left him helpless and afterward, the long journey.

"You always know things, Pepe! You had charge of the funeral
arrangements. Tell me where she is; take me to see her."

Up to that time he had not thought of her remains. He remembered the day
of the funeral, his dramatic grief which kept him in a corner with his
face buried in his hands. His intimate friends, the elect, who
penetrated to his retreat, clad in black, and wearing gloomy faces,
caught his hand and pressed it effusively. "Courage, Mariano. Be strong,
master." And outside the house, a constant trampling of horses' feet;
the iron fence black with the curious crowd, a double file of carriages
as far as the eye could see; reporters going from group to group, taking
down names.

All Madrid was there. And they had carried her away to the slow step of
a pair of horses with waving plumes, amid the undertaker's men in white
wigs and gold batons--and he had forgotten her, had felt no interest in
seeing the corner of the cemetery where she was buried forever, under
the glare of the sun, under the night rains that dripped upon her grave.
He cursed himself now for this outrageous neglect.

"Tell me where she is, Pepe. Take me. I want to see her."

He implored with the eagerness of remorse; he wanted to see her once, as
soon as possible, like a sinner who fears death and cries for
absolution.

Cotoner acceded to this immediate trip. She was in the Almudena
cemetery, which had been closed for some time. Only those who had long
standing titles to a lot went there now. Cotoner had desired to bury
Josephina beside her mother in the same inclosure where the stone that
covered the "lamented genius of diplomacy" was growing tarnished. He
wanted her to rest among her own.

On the way, Renovales felt a sort of anguish. Like a sleep-walker he saw
the streets of the city passing by the carriage window, then they went
down a steep hill, ill-kempt gardens, where loafers were sleeping,
leaning against the trees, or women were combing their hair in the sun;
a bridge; wretched suburbs with tumble-down houses; then the open
country, hilly roads and at last a grove of cypress trees beyond an
adobe wall and the tops of marble buildings, angels stretching out their
wings with a trumpet at their lips, great crosses, torch-holders mounted
on tripods, and a pure, blue sky which seemed to smile with superhuman
indifference at the excitement of that ant, named Renovales.

He w