o o'clock
all the townsfolk that matter gather with bunches of flowers on the
esplanade or in front of the cemetery half-way up Chestnut Hill, for
the ceremony and an open air service.

Early in the afternoon I betook myself with Marie to the scene. I put
on a fancy waistcoat of black and white check and my new patent leather
boots, which make me look at them. It is fine weather on this Sunday
of Sundays, and the bells are ringing. Everywhere the hurrying crowd
climbs the hill--peasants in flat caps, working families in their best
clothes, young girls with faces white and glossy as the bridal satin
which is the color of their thoughts, young men carrying jars of
flowers. All these appear on the esplanade, where graying lime trees
are also in assembly. Children are sitting on the ground.

Monsieur Joseph Boneas, in black, with his supremely distinguished air,
goes by holding his mother's arm. I bow deeply to them. He points at
the unfolding spectacle as he passes and says, "It is our race's
festival."

The words made me look more seriously at the scene before my eyes--all
this tranquil and contemplative stir in the heart of festive nature.
Reflection and the vexations of my life have mellowed my mind. The
idea at last becomes clear in my brain of an entirety, an immense
multitude in space, and infinite in time, a multitude of which I am an
integral part, which has shaped me in its image, which continues to
keep me like it, and carries me along its control; my own people.

Baroness Grille, in the riding habit that she almost always wears when
mixing with the people, is standing near the imposing entry to the
cemetery. Monsieur the Marquis of Monthyon is holding aloft his
stately presence, his handsome and energetic face. Solid and sporting,
with dazzling shirt cuffs and fine ebon-black shoes, he parades a
smile. There is an M.P. too, a former Minister, very assiduous, who
chats with the old duke. There are the Messrs. Gozlan and famous
people whose names one does not know. Members of the Institute of the
great learned associations, or people fabulously wealthy.

Not far from these groups, which are divided from the rest by a scarlet
barrier of beaters and the flashing chain of their slung horns, arises
Monsieur Fontan. The huge merchant and cafe-owner occupies an
intermediate and isolated place between principals and people. His
face is disposed in fat white tiers, like a Buddha's belly.
Monumentally