‘Ah! they’ve nearly finished over there, now!’ La Rousse whispered very softly.
Abbé Mouret was just concluding the De profundis in front of Albine’s grave. Then, with slow steps, he approached the coffin, drew himself up erect, and gazed at it for a moment without a quiver in his glance. He looked taller, his face shone with a serenity that seemed to transfigure him. He stooped and picked up a handful of earth, and scattered it over the coffin crosswise. Then, in a voice so steady and clear that not a syllable was lost, he said:
‘Revertitur in terrain suam unde erat, et spiritus redit ad Deum qui dedit illum.’
A shudder ran through those who were present. Lisa seemed to reflect for a moment, and then remarked with an expression of worry: ‘It is not very cheerful, eh, when one thinks that one’s own turn will come some day or other.’
But Brother Archangias had now handed the sprinkler to the priest, who took it and shook it several times over the corpse.
‘Requiescat in pace,’ he murmured.
‘Amen,’ responded Vincent and the Brother together, in tones so respectively shrill and deep that Catherine had to cram her fist into her mouth to keep from laughing.
‘No, indeed, it is certainly not cheerful,’ continued Lisa. ‘There really was nobody at all at that funeral. The graveyard would be quite empty without us.’
‘I’ve heard say that she killed herself,’ said old mother Brichet.
‘Yes, I know,’ interrupted La Rousse. ‘The Brother didn’t want to let her be buried amongst Christians, but Monsieur le Curé said that eternity was for everybody. I was there. But all the same the Philosopher might have come.’