The Bohemians desisted as regards Jacques, whom, however, they loved in brotherly fashion, from all those consolations which only serve to irritate grief.

Without uttering one of those remarks so hard to frame and so painful to listen to, they silently shook their friend by the hand in turn.
"Her death is a great misfortune for Jacques," said one of them.
"Yes," replied the painter Lazare, a strange spirit who had been able at the very outset to conquer all the rebellious impulses of youth by the inflexibility of one set purpose, and in whom the artist had ended by stifling the man, "yes, but it is a misfortune that he incurred voluntarily.

Since he knew Francine, Jacques has greatly altered." "She made him happy," said another.
"Happy," replied Lazare, "what do you call happy?
How can you call a passion, which brings a man to the condition in which Jacques is at this moment, happiness?
Show him a masterpiece and he would not even turn his eyes to look at it; on a Titian or a Raphael.

My mistress is immortal and will never deceive me.

She dwells in the Louvre, and her name is Joconde." While Lazare was about to continue his theories on art and sentiment, it was announced that it was time to start for the church.
After a few prayers the funeral procession moved on to the cemetery.