And not a sound came from the cold
and empty works; the works themselves were dead.
The funeral ceremony two days later was an imposing one. The five hundred
workmen of the establishment followed the hearse, notabilities of all
sorts made up an immense cortege. It was much noticed that an old
workman, father Moineaud, the oldest hand of the works, was one of the
pall-bearers. Indeed, people thought it touching, although the worthy old
man dragged his legs somewhat, and looked quite out of his element in a
frock coat, stiffened as he was by thirty years' hard toil. In the
cemetery, near the grave, Mathieu felt surprised on being approached by
an old lady who alighted from one of the mourning-coaches.
"I see, my friend," said she, "that you do not recognize me."
He made a gesture of apology. It was Seraphine, still tall and slim, but
so fleshless, so withered that one might have thought she was a hundred
years old. Cecile had warned Mathieu of it, yet if he had not seen her
himself he would never have believed that her proud insolent beauty,
which had seemed to defy time and excesses, could have faded so swiftly.
What frightful, withering blast could have swept over her?
"Ah! my friend," she continued, "I am more dead than the poor fellow whom
they are about to lower into that grave.
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