“‘What!’ exclaimed Werbrust, ’is she old enough to marry?  How quickly we grow old!’

“’Malvina d’Aldrigger is quite twenty years old, my dear fellow.  Old d’Aldrigger was married in 1800.  He gave some rather fine entertainments in Strasbourg at the time of his wedding, and afterwards when Malvina was born.  That was in 1801 at the peace of Amiens, and here are we in the year 1823, Daddy Werbrust!  In those days everything was Ossianized; he called his daughter Malvina.  Six years afterwards there was a rage for chivalry, Partant pour la Syrie —­a pack of nonsense—­and he christened his second daughter Isaure.  She is seventeen.  So there are two daughters to marry.’

“‘The women will not have a penny left in ten years’ time,’ said Werbrust, speaking to Desroches in a confidential tone.

“’There is d’Aldrigger’s man-servant, the old fellow bellowing away at the back of the church; he has been with them since the two young ladies were children, and he is capable of anything to keep enough together for them to live upon,’ said Taillefer.

“Dies iroe! (from the minor cannons). Dies illa! (from the choristers).

“’Good-day, Werbrust (from Taillefer), the Dies iroe puts me too much in mind of my poor boy.’

“‘I shall go too; it is too damp in here,’ said Werbrust.

“In favilla.

“‘A few halfpence, kind gentlemen!’ (from the beggars at the door).

“‘For the expenses of the church!’ (from the beadle, with a rattling clatter of the money-box).

“‘Amen’ (from the choristers).

“‘What did he die of?’ (from a friend).

“‘He broke a blood-vessel in the heel’ (from an inquisitive wag).

“‘Who is dead?’ (from a passer-by).

“‘The President de Montesquieu!’ (from a relative).

“The sacristan to the poor, ’Get away, all of you; the money for you has been given to us; don’t ask for any more.’”

“Done to the life!” cried Couture.  And indeed it seemed to us that we heard all that went on in the church.  Bixiou imitated everything, even the shuffling sound of the feet of the men that carried the coffin over the stone floor.

“There are poets and romancers and writers that say many fine things abut Parisian manners,” continued Bixiou, “but that is what really happens at a funeral.  Ninety-nine out of a hundred that come to pay their respects to some poor devil departed, get together and talk business or pleasure in the middle of the church.  To see some poor little touch of real sorrow, you need an impossible combination of circumstances.  And, after all, is there such a thing as grief without a thought of self in it?”

“Ugh!” said Blondet.  “Nothing is less respected than death; is it that there is nothing less respectable?”

“It is so common!” resumed Bixiou.  “When the service was over Nucingen and du Tillet went to the graveside.  The old man-servant walked; Nucingen and du Tillet were put at the head of the procession of mourning coaches.—­’Goot, mein goot friend,’ said Nucingen as they turned into the boulevard.  ’It ees a goot time to marry Malfina; you vill be der brodector off that boor family vat ess in tears; you vill haf ein family, a home off your own; you vill haf a house ready vurnished, und Malfina is truly ein dreashure.’”