h is a great misfortune for Jacques," said one of them.

"Yes," replied the painter Lazare, a strange spirit who had been able at
the very outset to conquer all the rebellious impulses of youth by the
inflexibility of one set purpose, and in whom the artist had ended by
stifling the man, "yes, but it is a misfortune that he incurred
voluntarily. Since he knew Francine, Jacques has greatly altered."

"She made him happy," said another.

"Happy," replied Lazare, "what do you call happy? How can you call a
passion, which brings a man to the condition in which Jacques is at this
moment, happiness? Show him a masterpiece and he would not even turn
his eyes to look at it; on a Titian or a Raphael. My mistress is
immortal and will never deceive me. She dwells in the Louvre, and her
name is Joconde."

While Lazare was about to continue his theories on art and sentiment, it
was announced that it was time to start for the church.

After a few prayers the funeral procession moved on to the cemetery. As
it was All Souls' Day an immense crowd filled it. Many people turned to
look at Jacques walking bareheaded in rear of the hearse.

"Poor fellow," said one, "it is his mother, no doubt."

"It is his father," said another.

"It is his sister," was elsewhere remarked.

A poet, who had come there to study the varying expressions of regret at
this festival of recollections celebrated once a year amidst November
fogs, alone guessed on seeing him pass that he was following the funeral
of his mistress.

When they came to the grave the Bohemians ranged themselves about it
bareheaded, Jacques stood close to the edge, his friend the doctor
holding him by the arm.

The grave diggers were in a hurry and wanted to get things over quickly.

"There is to be no speechifying," said one of them. "Well, so much the
better. Heave, mate, that's it."

The coffin taken out of the hearse was lowered into the grave. One man
withdrew the ropes and then with one of his mates took a shovel and
began to cast in the earth. The grave was soon filled up. A little
wooden cross was planted over it.

In the midst of his sobs the doctor heard Jacques utter this cry of
egoism--

"Oh my youth! It is you they are burying."

Jacques belonged to a club styled the Water Drinkers, which seemed to
have been founded in imitation of the famous one of the Rue des
Quatre-Vents, which is treated of in that fine story _"Un Grand Homme de
Province."_ Only there wa