_November 18._
Rose is dead. Decidedly, misfortune hangs over the captain's house.
Poor captain! His ferret dead ... Bourbaki dead ... and now it is
Rose's turn! After a sickness of some days, she was carried off day
before yesterday, in the evening, by a sudden attack of congestion
of the lungs. She was buried this morning. From the windows of the
linen-room I saw the procession pass in the road. The heavy coffin,
borne by six men, was covered with crowns and with bunches of white
flowers, like that of a young virgin. A considerable crowd, in long,
dark, babbling files,--all Mesnil-Roy--followed Captain Mauger, who,
wearing a tightly-fitting black frock-coat, and holding himself very
stiffly, led the mourners, in thoroughly military fashion. And the
church bells, tolling in the distance, responded to the sound of the
rattle waved by the beadle. Madame had warned me that I was not to go
to the funeral. However, I had no desire to go. I did not like this
fat and wicked woman; her death leaves me very calm and indifferent.
Yet perhaps I shall miss Rose; perhaps I shall miss my occasional
conversations with her in the road. But what a source of gossip this
event must be at the grocer's!
I was curious to know what impression this sudden death had made upon
the captain. And, as my masters were visiting, I took a walk in the
afternoon along the hedge. The captain's garden is sad and deserted. A
spade stuck in the ground indicates abandoned work. "The captain will
not come into the garden," said I to myself; "he is undoubtedly weeping
in his chamber, among the souvenirs." And suddenly I perceive him.
He has taken off his fine frock-coat, and put on his working-clothes
again, and, with his old foraging-cap on his head, he is engaged in
manuring his lawns. I even hear him humming a march in a low voice. He
leaves his wheelbarrow, and comes toward me, carrying his fork on his
shoulder.
"I am glad to see you, Mademoiselle Célestine."
I should like to offer him consolation or pity. I search for words, for
phrases. But how can one find a touching word in presence of such a
droll face? I content myself with repeating:
"A great misfortune, captain, a great misfortune for you! Poor Rose!"
"Yes, yes," he says, tamely.
His face is devoid of expression. His movements are uncertain. He adds,
jabbing his fork into a soft spot in the ground near the hedge:
"Especially as I cannot get along without anybody."