“But it is a civil funeral, is it not?”

The other gentleman, who evidently wished to tell me all about it, then said:  “Yes and no.  The clergy have refused to allow us the use of the church.”

On hearing that I uttered a prolonged A—­h! of astonishment.  I could not understand it at all, but my obliging neighbor continued: 

“It is rather a long story.  This young woman committed suicide, and that is the reason why she cannot be buried with any religious ceremony.  The gentleman who is walking first, and who is crying, is her husband.”

I replied with some hesitation: 

“You surprise and interest me very much, Monsieur.  Shall I be indiscreet if I ask you to tell me the facts of the case?  If I am troubling you, think that I have said nothing about the matter.”

The gentleman took my arm familiarly.

“Not at all, not at all.  Let us stop a little behind the others, and I will tell it you, although it is a very sad story.  We have plenty of time before getting to the cemetery, whose trees you see up yonder, for it is a stiff pull up this hill.”

And he began: 

“This young woman, Madame Paul Hamot, was the daughter of a wealthy merchant in the neighborhood, Monsieur Fontanelle.  When she was a mere child of eleven, she had a terrible adventure; a footman violated her.  She nearly died, in consequence, and the wretch’s brutality betrayed him.  A terrible criminal case was the result, and it was proved that for three months the poor young martyr had been the victim of that brute’s disgraceful practices, and he was sentenced to penal servitude for life.

“The little girl grew up stigmatized by disgrace, isolated without any companions, and grown-up people would scarcely kiss her, for they thought that they would soil their lips if they touched her forehead, and she became a sort of monster, a phenomenon to all the town.  People said to each other in a whisper:  ‘You know, little Fontanelle,’ and everybody turned away in the streets when she passed.  Her parents could not even get a nurse to take her out for a walk, as the other servants held aloof from her, as if contact with her would poison everybody who came near her.

“It was pitiable to see the poor child.  She remained quite by herself, standing by her maid, and looking at the other children amusing themselves.  Sometimes, yielding to an irresistible desire to mix with the other children, she advanced, timidly, with nervous gestures, and mingled with a group, with furtive steps, as if conscious of her own infamy.  And, immediately, the mothers, aunts and nurses used to come running from every seat, who took the children entrusted to their care by the hand and dragged them brutally away.

“Little Fontanelle remained isolated, wretched, without understanding what it meant, and then she began to cry, nearly heart-broken with grief, and then she used to run and hide her head in her nurse’s lap, sobbing.