Now Constance smiled to see the little ones playing on the steps of a monument. It was the tomb of a great jurist, a man of dignity during his mundane existence, his head crammed with those precepts which are devised for the temporal well-being of that fabric, sometimes termed society, and again, civilization. The poor waifs, with suppressed laughter––they dared not give full vent to their merriment with the black-robed sisters not far away––ran around the steps, unmindful of the inscription which might have been written by a Johnson, and as unconscious of unseemly conduct as the insects that hummed in the grass.
“Hush!” whispered one of the sisters, as a funeral cortège approached.
The children, wide-eyed in awe and wonder, desisted in their play.
“It is an old man who died last night,” said a nun in a low voice to Constance, noticing her look of inquiry.
The silver crucifix shone fitfully ahead, while the chanting of the priests, winding in and out after the holy symbol, fell upon the ear. And the young girl gazed with pity as the remains of the Marquis de Ligne, her father, were borne by.
| Qui vivis et regnas. Glorificamus te. |