QUAM VANO ET FALLACI HOMINUM JUDICIO
SIC HONORIBUS MUNDANIS
NUNQUAM QUIESITIS
SIBI GLORIAM SEMPITERNAM
MERUIT
which may be translated:
HERE SLEEPS
In the hope of a happy eternity
THE REVEREND JEROME COIGNARD
Priest
Formerly a very eloquent professor of
eloquence
At the college of Beauvais
Very zealous librarian to the Bishop of
Seez
Author of a fine translation of Zosimus
the Panopolitan
Which he unhappily left unfinished
When overtaken by his premature death
He was stabbed on the road to Lyons
In the 52nd year of his age
By the very villainous hand of a Jew
And thus perished the victim of a descendant
of the murderer
Of Jesus Christ
He was an agreeable companion
Of a learned conversation
Of an elevated genius
Abounding in cheerful speech and in good
maxims
And praising God in his works
He preserved amid the storms of life an
unshakable faith
In his truly Christian humility
More attentive to the salvation of his
soul
Than to the vain and erroneous opinions
of men
It was by living without honour in this
world
That he walked towards eternal glory
Farewell to Jahel-Dispersal of the Party
Three days after the demise of my good master, M.
d’Anquetil decided to continue his journey.
The carriage had been repaired. He gave the postboys
the order to be ready on the following morning.
His company had never been agreeable to me; in the
state of sorrow I was in, it became odious. I
could not bear the idea of following him and Jahel.
I resolved to look for employment at Tournus or at
Macon, and to remain hidden till the storm had calmed
down sufficiently to enable me to return to Paris,
where I was sure to be received with outstretched
arms by my dear parents. I imparted my intention
to M. d’Anquetil, and excused myself for not
accompanying him any farther. He tried to retain
me with a gracefulness I was not prepared for, but
soon willingly gave me leave to go where I wished.
With Jahel the matter was more difficult, but, being
naturally reasonable, she accepted the reasons I had
for leaving her.
On the night before my departure, while M. d’Anquetil
drank and played cards with the barber-surgeon, Jahel
and I went to the market place to get a breath of
air. It was embalmed by the scent of herbs and
full of the song of crickets.
“What a night!” I said to Jahel.
“The year cannot produce another like it, and
perhaps all my life long I shall never see one so
sweet.”
The flower-decked village graveyard extended before
our eyes its motionless turf, and the moonlight whitened
the scattered graves on the dark grass. The same
thought came to both of us to say a last farewell
to our friend. The place where he was put to eternal
rest was marked by a tear-sprinkled cross planted
deep in the mellow earth. The stone whereon the
epitaph was to be engraved had not yet been placed.
We seated ourselves very close to the grave on the
grass, and there, by an insensible but natural inclination,
we fell into one another’s arms without fearing
to offend by our kisses the memory of a friend whom
deep wisdom had rendered indulgent to human weakness.
