The five friends had finished dinner, five men of the world, mature, rich, three married, the two others bachelors. They met like this every month in memory of their youth, and after dinner they chatted until two o'clock in the morning. Having remained intimate friends, and enjoying each other's society, they probably considered these the pleasantest evenings of their lives. They talked on every subject, especially of what interested and amused Parisians. Their conversation was, as in the majority of salons1 elsewhere, a verbal rehash of what they had read in the morning papers.
One of the most lively of them was Joseph de Bardon, a celibate2 living the Parisian life in its fullest and most whimsical manner. He was not a debauche nor depraved, but a singular, happy fellow, still young, for he was scarcely forty. A man of the world in its widest and best sense, gifted with a brilliant, but not profound, mind, with much varied3 knowledge, but no true erudition, ready comprehension without true understanding, he drew from his observations, his adventures, from everything he saw, met with and found, anecdotes5 at once comical and philosophical6, and made humorous remarks that gave him a great reputation for cleverness in society.
He was the after dinner speaker and had his own story each time, upon which they counted, and he talked without having to be coaxed7.
As he sat smoking, his elbows on the table, a petit verre half full beside his plate, half torpid8 in an atmosphere of tobacco blended with steaming coffee, he seemed to be perfectly9 at home. He said between two whiffs:
“A curious thing happened to me some time ago.”
“Tell it to us,” they all exclaimed at once.
“With pleasure. You know that I wander about Paris a great deal, like book collectors who ransack10 book stalls. I just look at the sights, at the people, at all that is passing by and all that is going on.
“Toward the middle of September—it was beautiful weather—I went out one afternoon, not knowing where I was going. One always has a vague wish to call on some pretty woman or other. One chooses among them in one's mental picture gallery, compares them in one's mind, weighs the interest with which they inspire you, their comparative charms and finally decides according to the influence of the day. But when the sun is very bright and the air warm, it takes away from you all desire to make calls.
“The sun was bright, the air warm. I lighted a cigar and sauntered aimlessly along the outer boulevard. Then, as I strolled on, it occurred to me to walk as far as Montmartre and go into the cemetery11.
“I am very fond of cemeteries12. They rest me and give me a feeling of sadness; I need it. And, besides, I have good friends in there, those that one no longer goes to call on, and I go there from time to time.
“It is in this cemetery of Montmartre that is buried a romance of my life, a sweetheart who made a great impression on me, a very emotional, charming little woman whose memory, although it causes me great sorrow, also fills me with regrets—regrets of all kinds. And I go to dream beside her grave. She has finished with life.
“And then I like cemeteries because they are immense cities filled to overflowing13 with inhabitants. Think how many dead people there are in this small space, think of all the generations of Parisians who are housed there forever, veritable troglodytes14 enclosed in their little vaults15, in their little graves covered with a stone or marked by a cross, while living beings take up so much room and make so much noise —imbeciles that they are!
“Then, again, in cemeteries there are monuments almost as interesting as in museums. The tomb of Cavaignac reminded me, I must confess without making any comparison, of the chef d'oeuvre of Jean Goujon: the recumbent statue of Louis de Breze in the subterranean17 chapel18 of the Cathedral of Rouen. All modern and realistic art has originated there, messieurs. This dead man, Louis de Breze, is more real, more terrible, more like inanimate flesh still convulsed with the death agony than all the tortured corpses19 that are distorted to-day in funeral monuments.
“But in Montmartre one can yet admire Baudin's monument, which has a degree of grandeur20; that of Gautier, of Murger, on which I saw the other day a simple, paltry21 wreath of immortelles, yellow immortelles, brought thither22 by whom? Possibly by the last grisette, very old and now janitress in the neighborhood. It is a pretty little statue by Millet23, but ruined by dirt and neglect. Sing of youth, O Murger!
“Well, there I was in Montmartre Cemetery, and was all at once filled with sadness, a sadness that is not all pain, a kind of sadness that makes you think when you are in good health, 'This place is not amusing, but my time has not come yet.'
“The feeling of autumn, of the warm moisture which is redolent of the death of the leaves, and the weakened, weary, anaemic sun increased, while rendering24 it poetical25, the sensation of solitude26 and of finality that hovered27 over this spot which savors28 of human mortality.
“I walked along slowly amid these streets of tombs, where the neighbors do not visit each other, do not sleep together and do not read the newspapers. And I began to read the epitaphs. That is the most amusing thing in the world. Never did Labiche or Meilhac make me laugh as I have laughed at the comical inscriptions29 on tombstones. Oh, how much superior to the books of Paul de Kock for getting rid of the spleen are these marble slabs30 and these crosses where the relatives of the deceased have unburdened their sorrow, their desires for the happiness of the vanished ones and their hope of rejoining them—humbugs!
“But I love above all in this cemetery the deserted32 portion, solitary33, full of great yews34 and cypresses35, the older portion, belonging to those dead long since, and which will soon be taken into use again; the growing trees nourished by the human corpses cut down in order to bury in rows beneath little slabs of marble those who have died more recently.
“When I had sauntered about long enough to refresh my mind I felt that I would soon have had enough of it and that I must place the faithful homage36 of my remembrance on my little friend's last resting place. I felt a tightening37 of the heart as I reached her grave. Poor dear, she was so dainty, so loving and so white and fresh—and now—if one should open the grave—
“Leaning over the iron grating, I told her of my sorrow in a low tone, which she doubtless did not hear, and was moving away when I saw a woman in black, in deep mourning, kneeling on the next grave. Her crape veil was turned back, uncovering a pretty fair head, the hair in Madonna bands looking like rays of dawn beneath her sombre headdress. I stayed.
“Surely she must be in profound grief. She had covered her face with her hands and, standing4 there in meditation38, rigid39 as a statue, given up to her grief, telling the sad rosary of her remembrances within the shadow of her concealed40 and closed eyes, she herself seemed like a dead person mourning another who was dead. All at once a little motion of her back, like a flutter of wind through a willow41, led me to suppose that she was going to cry. She wept softly at first, then louder, with quick motions of her neck and shoulders. Suddenly she uncovered her eyes. They were full of tears and charming, the eyes of a bewildered woman, with which she glanced about her as if awaking from a nightmare. She looked at me, seemed abashed42 and hid her face completely in her hands. Then she sobbed43 convulsively, and her head slowly bent16 down toward the marble. She leaned her forehead on it, and her veil spreading around her, covered the white corners of the beloved tomb, like a fresh token of mourning. I heard her sigh, then she sank down with her cheek on the marble slab31 and remained motionless, unconscious.
“I darted44 toward her, slapped her hands, blew on her eyelids45, while I read this simple epitaph: 'Here lies Louis-Theodore Carrel, Captain of Marine46 Infantry47, killed by the enemy at Tonquin. Pray for him.'
“He had died some months before. I was affected48 to tears and redoubled my attentions. They were successful. She regained49 consciousness. I appeared very much moved. I am not bad looking, I am not forty. I saw by her first glance that she would be polite and grateful. She was, and amid more tears she told me her history in detached fragments as well as her gasping50 breath would allow, how the officer was killed at Tonquin when they had been married a year, how she had married him for love, and being an orphan51, she had only the usual dowry.
“I consoled her, I comforted her, raised her and lifted her on her feet. Then I said:
“'Do not stay here. Come.'
“'I am unable to walk,' she murmured.
“'I will support you.'
“'Thank you, sir; you are good. Did you also come to mourn for some one?'
“'Yes, madame.'
“'A dead friend?'
“'Yes, madame.'
“'Your wife?'
“'A friend.'
“'One may love a friend as much as they love their wife. Love has no law.'
“'Yes, madame.'
“And we set off together, she leaning on my arm, while I almost carried her along the paths of the cemetery. When we got outside she faltered52:
“'I feel as if I were going to be ill.'
“'Would you like to go in anywhere, to take something?'
“'Yes, monsieur.'
“I perceived a restaurant, one of those places where the mourners of the dead go to celebrate the funeral. We went in. I made her drink a cup of hot tea, which seemed to revive her. A faint smile came to her lips. She began to talk about herself. It was sad, so sad to be always alone in life, alone in one's home, night and day, to have no one on whom one can bestow53 affection, confidence, intimacy54.
“That sounded sincere. It sounded pretty from her mouth. I was touched. She was very young, perhaps twenty. I paid her compliments, which she took in good part. Then, as time was passing, I suggested taking her home in a carriage. She accepted, and in the cab we sat so close that our shoulders touched.
“When the cab stopped at her house she murmured: 'I do not feel equal to going upstairs alone, for I live on the fourth floor. You have been so good. Will you let me take your arm as far as my own door?'
“I agreed with eagerness. She ascended55 the stairs slowly, breathing hard. Then, as we stood at her door, she said:
“'Come in a few moments so that I may thank you.'
“And, by Jove, I went in. Everything was modest, even rather poor, but simple and in good taste.
“We sat down side by side on a little sofa and she began to talk again about her loneliness. She rang for her maid, in order to offer me some wine. The maid did not come. I was delighted, thinking that this maid probably came in the morning only, what one calls a charwoman.
“She had taken off her hat. She was really pretty, and she gazed at me with her clear eyes, gazed so hard and her eyes were so clear that I was terribly tempted56. I caught her in my arms and rained kisses on her eyelids, which she closed suddenly.
“She freed herself and pushed me away, saying:
“'Have done, have done.'
“But I next kissed her on the mouth and she did not resist, and as our glances met after thus outraging57 the memory of the captain killed in Tonquin, I saw that she had a languid, resigned expression that set my mind at rest.
“'Where do you dine?'
“'In a little restaurant in the neighborhood:
“'All alone?'
“'Why, yes.'
“'Will you dine with me?'
“'Where?'
“'In a good restaurant on the Boulevard.'
“She demurred59 a little. I insisted. She yielded, saying by way of apology to herself: 'I am so lonely—so lonely.' Then she added:
“'I must put on something less sombre, and went into her bedroom. When she reappeared she was dressed in half-mourning, charming, dainty and slender in a very simple gray dress. She evidently had a costume for the cemetery and one for the town.
“The dinner was very enjoyable. She drank some champagne60, brightened up, grew lively and I went home with her.
“This friendship, begun amid the tombs, lasted about three weeks. But one gets tired of everything, especially of women. I left her under pretext61 of an imperative62 journey. She made me promise that I would come and see her on my return. She seemed to be really rather attached to me.
“Other things occupied my attention, and it was about a month before I thought much about this little cemetery friend. However, I did not forget her. The recollection of her haunted me like a mystery, like a psychological problem, one of those inexplicable63 questions whose solution baffles us.
“I do not know why, but one day I thought I might possibly meet her in the Montmartre Cemetery, and I went there.
“I walked about a long time without meeting any but the ordinary visitors to this spot, those who have not yet broken off all relations with their dead. The grave of the captain killed at Tonquin had no mourner on its marble slab, no flowers, no wreath.
“But as I wandered in another direction of this great city of the dead I perceived suddenly, at the end of a narrow avenue of crosses, a couple in deep mourning walking toward me, a man and a woman. Oh, horrors! As they approached I recognized her. It was she!
“She saw me, blushed, and as I brushed past her she gave me a little signal, a tiny little signal with her eye, which meant: 'Do not recognize me!' and also seemed to say, 'Come back to see me again, my dear!'
“The man was a gentleman, distingue, chic64, an officer of the Legion of Honor, about fifty years old. He was supporting her as I had supported her myself when we were leaving the cemetery.
“I went my way, filled with amazement65, asking myself what this all meant, to what race of beings belonged this huntress of the tombs? Was she just a common girl, one who went to seek among the tombs for men who were in sorrow, haunted by the recollection of some woman, a wife or a sweetheart, and still troubled by the memory of vanished caresses66? Was she unique? Are there many such? Is it a profession? Do they parade the cemetery as they parade the street? Or else was she only impressed with the admirable, profoundly philosophical idea of exploiting love recollections, which are revived in these funereal67 places?
“And I would have liked to know whose widow she was on that special day.”
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1
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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2
celibate
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| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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7
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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9
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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10
ransack
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| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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cemeteries
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| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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13
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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14
troglodytes
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| n.类人猿( troglodyte的名词复数 )；隐居者；穴居者；极端保守主义者 | |
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15
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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16
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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17
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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21
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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22
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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23
millet
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| n.小米，谷子 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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26
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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27
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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28
savors
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的第三人称单数 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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29
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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30
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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32
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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33
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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34
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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35
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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36
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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38
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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40
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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41
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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42
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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44
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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45
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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46
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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47
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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48
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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49
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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50
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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51
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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52
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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53
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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54
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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55
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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57
outraging
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的现在分词 ) | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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59
demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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61
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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62
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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63
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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64
chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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65
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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66
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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67
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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