was to remain
alone, utterly alone, in the shadow of its night, deeper than that which
then was creeping up from the bottom of the garden, invading the winding
paths, the stone stairways, the bases of the columns, pyramids and tombs
of every kind, whose summits were reached more slowly by the shroud.
Navvies, all white with that chalky whiteness of dried bones, were
passing by, carrying their tools and wallets. Furtive mourners, dragging
themselves away regretfully from tears and prayer, glided along the
margins of the clumps of trees, seeming to skirt them as with the silent
flight of night-birds, while from the extremities of Pere Lachaise
voices rose--melancholy calls announcing the closing time. The day of
the cemetery was at its end. The city of the dead, handed over once
more to Nature, was becoming an immense wood with open spaces marked by
crosses. Down in a valley, the window-panes of a custodian's house were
lighted up. A shudder seemed to run through the air, losing itself in
murmurings along the dim paths.

"Let us go," the two old comrades said to each other, gradually coming
to feel the impression of that twilight, which seemed colder than
elsewhere; but before moving off, Hemerlingue, pursuing his train of
thought, pointed to the monument winged at the four corners by the
draperies and the outstretched hands of its sculptured figures.

"Look here," said he. "That was the man who understood the art of
keeping up appearances."

Jansoulet took his arm to aid him in the descent.

"Ah, yes, he was clever. But you are the most clever of all," he
answered with his terrible Gascon intonation.

Hemerlingue made no protest.

"It is to my wife that I owe it. So I strongly recommend you to make
your peace with her, because unless you do----"

"Oh, don't be afraid. We shall come on Saturday. But you will take me to
see Le Merquier."

And while the two silhouettes, the one tall and square, the other
massive and short, were passing out of sight among the twinings of the
great labyrinth, while the voice of Jansoulet guiding his friend, "This
way, old fellow--lean hard on my arm," died away by insensible degrees,
a stray beam of the setting sun fell upon and illuminated behind them
in the little plateau, an expressive and colossal bust, with great brow
beneath long swept-back hair, and powerful and ironic lip--the bust of
Balzac watching them.

LA BARONNE HEMERLINGUE

Just at the end of the long vault,