’Revertitur in terrain suam unde erat, et spiritus redit ad Deum qui dedit illum.’

A shudder ran through those who were present.  Lisa seemed to reflect for a moment, and then remarked with an expression of worry:  ’It is not very cheerful, eh, when one thinks that one’s own turn will come some day or other.’

But Brother Archangias had now handed the sprinkler to the priest, who took it and shook it several times over the corpse.

‘Requiescat in pace,’ he murmured.

‘Amen,’ responded Vincent and the Brother together, in tones so respectively shrill and deep that Catherine had to cram her fist into her mouth to keep from laughing.

‘No, indeed, it is certainly not cheerful,’ continued Lisa.  ’There really was nobody at all at that funeral.  The graveyard would be quite empty without us.’

‘I’ve heard say that she killed herself,’ said old mother Brichet.

‘Yes, I know,’ interrupted La Rousse.  ’The Brother didn’t want to let her be buried amongst Christians, but Monsieur le Cure said that eternity was for everybody.  I was there.  But all the same the Philosopher might have come.’

At that very moment Rosalie reduced them all to silence by murmuring:  ‘See! there he is, the Philosopher.’

Jeanbernat was, indeed, just entering the graveyard.  He walked straight to the group that stood around Albine’s grave; and he stepped along with so lithe, so springy a gait, that none of them heard him coming.  When he was close to them, he remained for a moment behind Brother Archangias and seemed to fix his eyes, for an instant, on the nape of the Brother’s neck.  Then, just as the Abbe Mouret was finishing the office, he calmly drew a knife from his pocket, opened it, and with a single cut sliced off the Brother’s right ear.

There had been no time for any one to interfere.  The Brother gave a terrible yell.

‘The left one will be for another occasion,’ said Jeanbernat quietly, as he threw the ear upon the ground.  Then he went off.

So great and so general was the stupefaction that nobody followed him.  Brother Archangias had dropped upon the heap of fresh soil which had been thrown out of the grave.  He was staunching his bleeding wound with his handkerchief.  One of the four peasants who had carried the coffin, wanted to lead him away, conduct him home; but he refused with a gesture and remained where he was, fierce and sullen, wishing to see Albine lowered into the pit.

‘There! it’s our turn at last!’ said Rosalie with a little sigh.

But Abbe Mouret still lingered by the grave, watching the bearers who were slipping cords under Albine’s coffin in order that they might let it down gently.  The bell was still tolling; but La Teuse must have been getting tired, for it tolled irregularly, as though it were becoming a little irritated at the length of the ceremony.

The sun was growing hotter and the Solitaire’s shadow crept slowly over the grass and the grave mounds.  When Abbe Mouret was obliged to step back in order to give the bearers room, his eyes lighted upon the marble tombstone of Abbe Coffin, that priest who also had loved, and who was now sleeping there so peacefully beneath the wild-flowers.