February 22.
The burial took place to-day. Many of Marguerite’s friends came to the church. Some of them wept with sincerity. When the funeral started on the way to Montmartre only two men followed it: the Comte de G., who came from London on purpose, and the duke, who was supported by two footmen.
I write you these details from her house, in the midst of my tears and under the lamp which burns sadly beside a dinner which I can not touch, as you can imagine, but which Nanine has got for me, for I have eaten nothing for twenty-four hours.
My life can not retain these sad impressions for long, for my life is not my own any more than Marguerite’s was hers; that is why I give you all these details on the very spot where they occurred, in the fear, if a long time elapsed between them and your return, that I might not be able to give them to you with all their melancholy exactitude.
Chapter XXVII
“You have read it?” said Armand, when I had finished the manuscript.
“I understand what you must have suffered, my friend, if all that I read is true.”
“My father confirmed it in a letter.”
We talked for some time over the sad destiny which had been accomplished, and I went home to rest a little.
Armand, still sad, but a little relieved by the narration of his story, soon recovered, and we went together to pay a visit to Prudence and to Julie Duprat.