Graveyard Sirens
The five friends were finishing their dinner; there were two bachelors and three married men, all middle-aged and wealthy. They assembled thus once a month, in memory of old times, and after they had dined they used to sit talking until two o’clock in the morning. They were fond of one another’s society, and had remained closely united, so these were perhaps the happiest evenings of their lives. They chatted about everything, about everything that occupies and amuses Parisians. Their conversation, as in most drawing rooms, was a sort of spoken rehash of the morning newspapers.
One of the liveliest was Joseph de Bardon, a bachelor, who lived the life of a boulevardier most thoroughly and capriciously, without being debauched or depraved. It interested him, and as he was still young, being barely forty, he enjoyed it keenly. A man of the world in the broadest and best sense of the word, he possessed a great deal of wit without much depth, a general knowledge without real learning, quick perception without serious penetration; but his adventures and observations furnished him many amusing stories, which he told with so much philosophy and humour that society voted him very intellectual.
He was a favourite after-dinner speaker, always having some story to relate to which his friends looked forward. Presently he began to tell a story without being asked. Leaning on the table with a half-filled glass of fine champagne in front of his plate, in the smoky atmosphere filled with the fragrance of coffee, he seemed perfectly at ease, just as some beings are entirely at home in certain places and under certain conditions—as a goldfish in its bowl, for instance, or a pious woman in church.
Puffing at his cigar, he said:
“A rather curious thing happened to me a little while ago.”
All exclaimed at once: “Tell us about it!”
Presently he continued:
“You all know how I love to roam around the city, like a collector in search of antiquities. I enjoy watching people and things, everything that happens, and everyone who passes. About the middle of September, the weather being very fine, I went for a walk one afternoon, without a definite purpose. We men always have the vague impulse to call on some pretty woman. We review them in our mind, compare their respective charms, the interest they arouse in us, and finally decide in favour of the one that attracts us most.
“But when the sun shines brightly and the air is balmy, sometimes we altogether lose the desire for calling.
“That day the sun was bright and the air was warm, so I simply lighted a cigar and started along the outer boulevard. As I was sauntering along, I thought I would take a look around the cemetery of Montmartre. Now, I have always liked cemeteries because they sadden and rest me; and I need that influence at times. Besides, some of my good friends are laid to rest there, and I go to see them once in a while.
“As it happens, I once buried a romance in this particular cemetery—an old love of mine, of whom I was very fond, a charming little woman whose memory, while it hurts me, awakens all kinds of regrets—I often dream beside her grave. All is over for her now!
“I like graveyards because they are such immense, densely populated cities. Just think of all the bodies buried in that small space, of the countless generations of Parisians laid there forever, eternally entombed in the little vaults, in their little graves marked by a cross or a stone, while the living—fools that they are!—take up so much room and make such a fuss.
“Cemeteries have some monuments quite as interesting as those to be seen in the museums. Cavaignac’s tomb I liken, without comparing it, to that masterpiece of Jean Goujon, the tombstone of Louis de Brézé in the subterranean chapel in the cathedral of Rouen. My friends, all so-called modern and realistic art originated there. That reproduction of Louis de Brézé is more lifelike and terrible, more convulsed with agony, than any one of the statues that decorate modern tombs.
“In Montmartre Cemetery, however, Baudin’s monument is admirable, for it is quite imposing; also the tombs of Gautier and Mürger, where the other day I found a solitary wreath of yellow immortelles, laid there—by whom do you suppose? Perhaps by the last grisette, grown old, and possibly become a concierge in the neighbourhood! It’s a pretty little statue by Millet, but it is ruined by neglect and accumulated filth. Sing of youth, O Mürger!
“Well, I entered the cemetery, filled with a certain sadness, not too poignant, however, and suggesting the thought, if one is well: ‘This is not very cheerful, but I’m not to be put there yet.’
“The impression of autumn, a warm dampness smelling of dead leaves, the pale, anaemic rays of the sun, intensified and poetised the sensation of the solitude and of the end of all things, which haunts this place of death.
“I walked slowly along the alleys of graves where neighbours no longer visit, no longer sleep together, nor read the papers. I began reading the epitaphs. There is nothing more amusing in the world. Labiche and Meilhac have never made me laugh as much as some of these tombstone inscriptions. I tell you these crosses and marble slabs on which the relatives of the dead have poured out their regrets and their wishes for the happiness of the departed, their hopes of reunion—the hypocrites!—make better reading than Paul de Kock’s funniest tales! But what I love in the cemetery are the abandoned plots filled with yew-trees and cypress, the resting-place of those departed long ago. However, the green trees nourished by the bodies will soon be felled to make room for those that have recently passed away, whose graves will be there, under little marble slabs.
“After loitering awhile, I felt tired, and decided to pay my faithful tribute to my little
