of the first walk two large lilac trees were budding.  There were but few burials here; weeds grew thickly, and a few cypress trees threw solemn shadows across the green.  Helene hurried straight on; a troop of frightened sparrows flew off, and a grave-digger raised his head towards her after flinging aside a shovelful of earth.  The procession had probably not yet arrived from the church; the cemetery seemed empty to her.  She turned to the right, and advanced almost to the edge of the terrace parapet; but, on looking round, she saw behind a cluster of acacias the little girls in white upon their knees before the temporary vault into which Jeanne’s remains had a moment before been lowered.  Abbe Jouve, with outstretched hand, was giving the farewell benediction.  She heard nothing but the dull thud with which the stone slab of the vault fell back into its place.  All was over.

Meanwhile, however, Pauline had observed her and pointed her out to Madame Deberle, who almost gave way to anger.  “What!” she exclaimed; “she has come.  But it isn’t at all proper; it’s very bad taste!"[*]

[*] In France, among the aristocracy and the upper bourgeoisie—­to
    which Madame Deberle belonged—­mothers seldom, if ever, attend the
    funerals of their children, or widows those of the husbands they
    have lost.  They are supposed to be so prostrated by grief as to be
    unable to appear in public.  This explanation was necessary, as
    otherwise the reader might not understand the force of Madame
    Deberle’s remarks.

So saying she stepped forward, showing Helene by the expression of her face that she disapproved of her presence.  Some other ladies also followed with inquisitive looks.  Monsieur Rambaud, however, had already rejoined the bereaved mother, and stood silent by her side.  She was leaning against one of the acacias, feeling faint, and weary with the sight of all those mourners.  She nodded her head in recognition of their sympathetic words, but all the while she was stifling with the thought that she had come too late; for she had heard the noise of the stone falling back into its place.  Her eyes ever turned towards the vault, the step of which a cemetery keeper was sweeping.

“Pauline, see to the children,” said Madame Deberle.

The little girls rose from their knees looking like a flock of white sparrows.  A few of the tinier ones, lost among their petticoats, had seated themselves on the ground, and had to be picked up.  While Jeanne was being lowered down, the older girls had leaned forward to see the bottom of the cavity.  It was so dark they had shuddered and turned pale.  Sophie assured her companions in a whisper that one remained there for years and years.  “At nighttime too?” asked one of the little Levasseur girls.  “Of course—­at night too—­always!” Oh, the night!  Blanche was nearly dead with the idea.  And they all looked at one another with dilated eyes, as if they had just heard some story