f Versailles was enormous.

"Do they wear such deep mourning for all relatives?" I asked our hotel
proprietor, who had just told us that during the first month of mourning
the disguising veils were worn over the faces.

Monsieur shook his sleek head gravely, "But no, Madame, not for all. For
a husband, yes; for a father or mother, yes; for a sister or brother, an
uncle or aunt, yes; but for a cousin, _no_."

He pronounced the _no_ so emphatically as almost to convince us of his
belief that in refusing to mourn in the most lugubrious degree for
cousins the Versaillese acted with praiseworthy self-denial.

There seemed to be no medium between sackcloth and gala-dress. We seldom
noted the customary degrees of half-mourning. Plain colours were
evidently unpopular and fancy tartans of the most flamboyant hues
predominated amongst those who, during a spell of, say, three years had
been fortunate enough not to lose a parent, sister, brother, uncle, or
aunt. A perfectly natural reaction appeared to urge the _ci-devant_
mourners to robe themselves in lively checks and tartans. It was as
though they said--"Here at last is our opportunity for gratifying our
natural taste in colours. It will probably be of but short duration.
Therefore let us select a combination of all the most brilliant tints
and wear them, for who knows how soon that gruesome pall of woe may
again enshroud us."

Probably it was the vicinity of our hotel to the Church of Notre Dame
that, until we discovered its brighter side, led us to esteem Versailles
a veritable city of the dead, for on our bi-daily walks to visit the
invalids we were almost certain to encounter a funeral procession either
approaching or leaving Notre Dame. And on but rare occasions was the
great central door undraped with the sepulchral insignia which
proclaimed that a Mass for the dead was in prospect or in progress.
Sometimes the sable valance and portieres were heavily trimmed and
fringed with silver; at others there was only the scantiest display of
time-worn black cloth.

[Illustration: A Football Team]

The humblest funeral was affecting and impressive. As the sad little
procession moved along the streets--the wayfarers reverently uncovering
and soldiers saluting as it passed--the dirge-like chant of the
_Miserere_ never failed to fill my eyes with unbidden tears of sympathy
for the mourners, who, with bowed heads, walked behind the wreath-laden
hearse.

Despite the abundant e