Meanwhile the lady thus referred to removed her tear-moistened handkerchief from her eyes occasionally, and sought to compose her features.
"She is really a beautiful woman still," whispered one of the gentlemen to the other.
"For twenty years she has been virtually a widow," was the reply.
"I doubt whether she remains one another twelve months," observed the first speaker.
The funeral anthem followed at this point. The village church could boast of an organ, the generous gift of the deceased. The choir sang, in excellent time and tune, one of the most beautiful of funeral melodies,—from the opera "Nebuchadnezzar," with words, of course, adapted to the occasion. Did the lamented Casimir Baradlay hear this opera selection sung over his remains? Administrator Rideghváry gave utterance to this query as he turned to the gentleman at his side.
"Didn't he like opera music?" asked the latter.
"On the contrary, he was always highly incensed when any such music was introduced into the church service. Indeed, he went so far as to give express directions in his will that no operatic airs should be sung at his funeral."
"Are you, then, so familiar with his last will and testament?" inquired the other.
But the administrator merely lowered his eyelids and twirled his mustache, implying thereby that he knew more than he cared to admit.
The funeral anthem did not close the service. Side by side on the bench near the pulpit sat three priests, who were evidently there for a purpose. When the singing ceased one of them mounted the pulpit.