Oh open me the churchyard wicket wide!
Let my love in, to comfort them that died!...
(Trans. Alma Strettell.)
Suddenly, from a yawning tomb three paces from us, we heard in dolorous sepulchral tones these words:
“Let sleep in peace those who sleep!”
We remained petrified, and all around us in the moonlight a deep silence reigned.
At last Mathieu said softly to Grivolas:
“Yes,” replied the painter, “it is down there, in that sarcophagus.”
“Eh,” cried Master Gafet, bursting into laughter, “that is a ‘dressed sleeper,’ as we call them in Arles, one of those vagrants who come to lodge at night in the empty tombs.”
“What a pity,” cried Daudet, “that it was not a real ghost! Some beautiful vestal, who at the voice of the poets was roused from her sleep, and, Oh, my Grivolas, wished to rise up and embrace thee!”
Then in a resounding voice he sang, and we all joined in: