"Ah! my poor friends," Blondin lamented, after having remained huddled in his chair, "there is another one this week. This makes the seventh this year, without counting all those which pass unnoticed ... Ah!"
"What is it?" Moscowitch, inquired.
"A premature burial."
"Ah! my poor friends," sighed Blondin, stretching his contracted hands towards a vision of horror, "to be buried alive, to twist in the coffin with anguish and suffocation ... and first of all the calvary of cataleptics condemned to torment ... the hypocritical tears ... the stirrings in the chamber ... the ominous carpenter ... the church ... the Dies irae ... the stones and the wet ground, and the rain falling, falling, falling on the oak ... then silence, silence, silence...."
"My dear Blondin," Fortier said, "you should get married. That will divert you."
"Poor woman!" Renaudeau exclaimed. "Let him rather take light o' loves."
"But I believe," Entragues said, "that his principles...."
"Yes, this unfortunate creature is truly mal-treated by life. What a specimen. And not one of us is assured against such a disorder! When one thinks of this possible end, it is best to follow Fortier's advice, marry, become bourgeois, procreate and only read the first page of the papers, the feuilleton, the exchange, and deny oneself all other sundry facts as too exciting."
"More than one of us will end," Entragues said, "with marriage, corporeal progeniture."
"Do you not find it odd, Entragues, that to marry, one is forced to submit to ceremonies and to the assent of one's contemporaries?"