The 'miser' meanwhile paces slowly along the broad, straight path of the cemetery, between the tall chestnuts planted on either side.
How dreary, how desolate a church-yard this is, upon which the noise and bustle of the swarming city outside its gates clamorously intrude!--a church-yard where the dead are thrust away as troublesome rubbish, only to put them where they can be forgotten. It is all so bare and prosaic; the flat stones lie upon the graves as if there was a fear lest, if not held down in such brutal fashion, the wretched dead would rise and return to a world where there is no longer any place for them, and where interests hold sway in which they have no part. Urns and other pagan decorations are abundant; there are but few crosses. The tops of the chestnut-trees are growing yellow, and here and there a pale leaf falls upon the baked earth.
A gardener with a harshly-creaking rake is rooting out the sprouting grass from the paths; some gossiping women are seated upon the stone seats, brown, ugly, in starched and crimped white muslin caps, the gaps made by missing teeth in their jaws repulsively apparent as they chatter. A labouring man passes with a nosegay half concealed in the breast of his coat, and in his whole bearing that dull shamefacedness which would fain bar all sympathy, and which is characteristic of masculine grief. The old Baron looks about him restlessly, and finally goes up to the raking gardener and addresses him, asking for the superintendent of the place. After much circumlocution, gesticulation, and shouting on both sides, the two at last understand each other.
"Monsieur cherche une tombe, la tombe d'un étranger décédé à Paris? When? Fifteen years ago. That is a very long time. And no one has ever asked after the grave before? Had the dead man no relatives, then? Ah, such a forgotten grave is very sad; it will be difficult to identify it. Maybe--who knows?--some other bodies have been buried there. Here is the guard."
"For what is Monsieur looking?"
"A grave."
"The name?"
"Baron Frédéric Leskjewitsch." The old man's voice trembles: perhaps it is too late; perhaps he has again delayed too long.
But no: the guard's face immediately takes on an intelligent expression.
"Tres bien, monsieur; par id, monsieur. I know the grave well. Some one from the Austrian embassy comes every year to look after it on the part of the relatives, and this year, not long ago,--oh, only a short time ago,--two ladies came and brought flowers; an elderly lady, and one quite young--oh, but very lovely, monsieur. Par ici, par ici."