Popincourt, together with a barber who had coiffed her wonderful hair once a week--with a strange burning at his heart.

That iceberg which most mourners carry in their breasts was not his, as he walked down the mountainside from Carmen's grave.

Behind him trotted Mme.
Glozel and Mme.

Popincourt, like little magpies, attendants on this eagle of sorrow whose life-love had been laid to rest, her heart-troubles over.

Passion or ennui would no more vex her.
She had had a soul, had Carmen Dolores, though she had never known it till her days closed in on her, and from the dusk she looked out of the casements of life to such a glowing as Jean Jacques had seen when his burning mill beatified the evening sky.