“This is a non-religious funeral,” and then I reflected that a town like Loubain must contain at least a hundred freethinkers, who would have made a point of making a manifestation.  What could it be, then?  The rapid pace of the procession clearly proved that the body was to be buried without ceremony, and, consequently, without the intervention of the Church.

My idle curiosity framed the most complicated surmises, and as the hearse passed me, a strange idea struck me, which was to follow it, with the eight gentlemen.  That would take up my time for an hour, at least, and I accordingly walked with the others, with a sad look on my face, and, on seeing this, the two last turned round in surprise, and then spoke to each other in a low voice.

No doubt they were asking each other whether I belonged to the town, and then they consulted the two in front of them, who stared at me in turn.  This close scrutiny annoyed me, and to put an end to it I went up to them, and, after bowing, I said: 

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for interrupting your conversation, but, seeing a civil funeral, I have followed it, although I did not know the deceased gentleman whom you are accompanying.”

“It was a woman,” one of them said.

I was much surprised at hearing this, and asked: 

“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 this 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, forget that I have said anything about the matter.”

The gentleman took my arm familiarly.

“Not at all, not at all.  Let us linger 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, the trees of which 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 shocking adventure; a footman attacked her and she nearly died.  A terrible criminal case was the result, and the man was sentenced to penal servitude for life.