THOUGHTS AFTER DEATH
I have departed from this planet and I have left behind my poor earthly
ones with their occupations which are as many as they are useless; at
last I am living in the scintillating splendor of the stars, each of
which used to seem to me as large as millions of suns. Of old I was
never able to get such lighting for my scenery on the great stage at the
Opera where the backdrops were too often in darkness. Henceforth there
will be no letters to answer; I have bade farewell to first performances
and the literary and other discussions which come from them.
Here there are no newspapers, no dinners, no sleepless nights. Ah! if I
could but counsel my friends to join me here, I would not hesitate to
call them to me. But would they come?
Before I came to this distant place where I now sojourn, I wrote out my
last wishes (an unhappy husband would have taken advantage of the
occasion to write with joy, "my first wishes").
I had indicated that above all I wanted to be buried at Egreville, near
the family abode in which I had lived so long. Oh, the good cemetery in
the open fields, silent as befits those who live there!
I asked that they should refrain from hanging black draperies on my
door, ornaments worn threadbare by use. I expressed the wish that a
suitable carriage should take me from Paris, the journey, with my
consent, to begin at eight in the morning.
An evening paper (perhaps two) felt it to be its duty to inform its
readers of my decease. A few friends--I still had some the day
before--came and asked my concierge if the news were true, and he
replied, "Alas, Monsieur went without leaving his address." And his
reply was true for he did not know where that obliging carriage was
taking me.
At lunch acquaintances honored me among themselves with their
condolences, and during the day here and there in the theaters they
spoke of the adventure,
"Now that he is dead, they'll play him less, won't they?"
"Do you know he left still another work?"
"Ah, believe me, I loved him well! I have always had such great success
in his works."
A woman's lovely voice said that.
They wept at my publishers, for there they loved me dearly.
At home, Rue de Vaugirard, my wife, daughter, grandchildren and
great-grandchildren gathered and almost found consolation in their sobs.
The family was to reach Egreville the same evening, the night before my
burial.
And my soul (the soul survives the body) listened to all these sounds
from the city left behind. As the carriage took me farther and farther
away, the talking and the noises grew fainter and fainter, and I knew,
for I had my vault built long ago, that the heavy stone once sealed
would be a few hours later the portal of oblivion.
THE END