As it was All Souls' Day an immense crowd filled it.

Many people turned to look at Jacques walking bareheaded in rear of the hearse.
"Poor fellow," said one, "it is his mother, no doubt." "It is his father," said another.
"It is his sister," was elsewhere remarked.
A poet, who had come there to study the varying expressions of regret at this festival of recollections celebrated once a year amidst November fogs, alone guessed on seeing him pass that he was following the funeral of his mistress.
When they came to the grave the Bohemians ranged themselves about it bareheaded, Jacques stood close to the edge, his friend the doctor holding him by the arm.
The grave diggers were in a hurry and wanted to get things over quickly.
"There is to be no speechifying," said one of them.

"Well, so much the better.

Heave, mate, that's it." The coffin taken out of the hearse was lowered into the grave.

One man withdrew the ropes and then with one of his mates took a shovel and began to cast in the earth.