easants on a sort of litter,
painted black. The coffin was clumsily covered with too short a pall,
and at the lower end of it the fresh deal of which it was made could be
seen, with the heads of the nails sparkling with a steely glitter. Upon
the pall lay flowers: handfuls of white roses, hyacinths, and tuberoses,
taken from the dead girl's very bed.

'Just be careful!' cried Brother Archangias to the peasants, as they
slightly tilted the litter in order to get it through the gateway. 'You
will be upsetting everything on to the ground!'

He kept the coffin in its place with one of his fat hands. With the
other--as there was no second clerk--he was carrying the holy-water
vessel, and he likewise represented the choirman, the rural guard, who
had been unable to come.

'Come in, too, you others,' he exclaimed, turning round.

There was a second funeral, that of Rosalie's baby, who had died the
previous day from an attack of convulsions. The mother, the father, old
mother Brichet, Catherine, and two big girls, La Rousse and Lisa, were
there. The two last were carrying the baby's coffin, one supporting each
end.

Suddenly all voices were hushed again, and there came another interval
whilst the bell continued tolling in slow and desolate accents. The
funeral procession crossed the entire burial-ground, going towards
the corner which was formed by the church and the wall of Desiree's
poultry-yard. Swarms of grasshoppers leaped away at the approaching
footsteps, and lizards hurried into their holes. A heavy warmth hung
over this corner of the loamy cemetery. The crackling of the dry grass
beneath the tramp of the mourners sounded like choking sobs.

'There! stop where you are!' cried the Brother, barring the way before
the two big girls who were carrying the baby's coffin. 'Wait for your
turn. Don't be getting in our legs here.'

The two girls laid the baby on the ground. Rosalie, Fortune, and old
mother Brichet were lingering in the middle of the graveyard, while
Catherine slyly followed Brother Archangias. Albine's grave was on
the left hand of Abbe Caffin's tomb, whose white stone seemed in the
sunshine to be flecked with silvery spangles. The deep cavity, freshly
dug that morning, yawned amidst thick tufts of grass. Big weeds, almost
uprooted, drooped over the edges, and a fallen flower lay at the bottom,
staining the dark soil with its crimson petals. When Abbe Mouret came
forward, the soft earth crumbled and gave