“A curious thing happened to me some time ago.”

“Tell it to us,” they all exclaimed at once.

“With pleasure.  You know that I wander about Paris a great deal, like book collectors who ransack book stalls.  I just look at the sights, at the people, at all that is passing by and all that is going on.

“Toward the middle of September—­it was beautiful weather—­I went out one afternoon, not knowing where I was going.  One always has a vague wish to call on some pretty woman or other.  One chooses among them in one’s mental picture gallery, compares them in one’s mind, weighs the interest with which they inspire you, their comparative charms and finally decides according to the influence of the day.  But when the sun is very bright and the air warm, it takes away from you all desire to make calls.

“The sun was bright, the air warm.  I lighted a cigar and sauntered aimlessly along the outer boulevard.  Then, as I strolled on, it occurred to me to walk as far as Montmartre and go into the cemetery.

“I am very fond of cemeteries.  They rest me and give me a feeling of sadness; I need it.  And, besides, I have good friends in there, those that one no longer goes to call on, and I go there from time to time.

“It is in this cemetery of Montmartre that is buried a romance of my life, a sweetheart who made a great impression on me, a very emotional, charming little woman whose memory, although it causes me great sorrow, also fills me with regrets—­regrets of all kinds.  And I go to dream beside her grave.  She has finished with life.

“And then I like cemeteries because they are immense cities filled to overflowing with inhabitants.  Think how many dead people there are in this small space, think of all the generations of Parisians who are housed there forever, veritable troglodytes enclosed in their little vaults, in their little graves covered with a stone or marked by a cross, while living beings take up so much room and make so much noise —­imbeciles that they are!

“Then, again, in cemeteries there are monuments almost as interesting as in museums.  The tomb of Cavaignac reminded me, I must confess without making any comparison, of the chef d’oeuvre of Jean Goujon:  the recumbent statue of Louis de Breze in the subterranean chapel of the Cathedral of Rouen.  All modern and realistic art has originated there, messieurs.  This dead man, Louis de Breze, is more real, more terrible, more like inanimate flesh still convulsed with the death agony than all the tortured corpses that are distorted to-day in funeral monuments.

“But in Montmartre one can yet admire Baudin’s monument, which has a degree of grandeur; that of Gautier, of Murger, on which I saw the other day a simple, paltry wreath of immortelles, yellow immortelles, brought thither by whom?  Possibly by the last grisette, very old and now janitress in the neighborhood.  It is a pretty little statue by Millet, but ruined by dirt and neglect.  Sing of youth, O Murger!