His eyes looked up to the heavens. Their fervent glance seemed to desire to pierce the mystery of the clouds, into the inaccessible region of destinies. He no longer cursed. He was merely seeking a reply.
Why did the Lord tolerate such iniquitous ruins? By what formidable designs did He associate His people with the accomplishment of such misdeeds? When would He at last raise up in His Temple, among His priests, someone, with a free and daring voice—to remind the Jews, the proudest and the meekest, of the solemn trust of purity and justice which they once received at the foot of Sinai?
No sign answered these silent queries. The clouds pursued their peaceful promenade on the blue background of the sky.
Schleifmann dragged his weary feet to the gate. In the curly locks of his gray beard his lips unconsciously mumbled: “Cyprien!... Cyprien!...” He remembered the good times spent at Klapprot, the progressive building up of the old theory of the Two Banks of the River.... A most uncertain, a most contestable theory, if one liked—but a theory which, nevertheless, contained a small portion of the truth! Then, how valiantly he would utter it, poor Cyprien! With what gayety, what fire, what conviction, and what presentiment perhaps! Now, alas, there would be no more Cyprien! Henceforth, Schleifmann, my dear fellow, you will remain a poor lonely soul, vowed to your books, your deserted garret and your friendless brasseries! The eyes of the Galician were full of big tears.
As he reached the gate of the cemetery, he stopped short and stood gravely on the threshold.
Outside, in front of the door, two carriages faced each other, against the pavement. In the first, a private coupé with sober harness, were settled Zozé, Chambannes and Gerald, all three. Into the other—a black undertake carriage—young Boerzell was climbing beside the Raindal family.
The drivers started simultaneously. The two carriages turned in opposite directions, one going back to the elegance of the Right Bank, the other driving again into the studious district of the Left Bank.
Schleifmann followed them both alternately with his glance. Ah! if his good old Cyprien had been there to see that!
Gradually, the carriages grew dim at the two ends of the boulevard. He could hardly distinguish their vanishing silhouettes, one massive and without reflection, like a block of black crêpe, the other smart and light under the sparkle of a new coat of varnish.
Schleifmann smiled with melancholy pride.