The news of this event spread with the telegraphic rapidity peculiar to regions where social communications have no distractions, where gossip, scandal, calumny, in short, the social tale which feasts the world has no break of continuity from one boundary to another.  Before long, persons arriving at the mayor’s office released him from all embarrassment.  They were able to convert the proces-verbal into a mere certificate of death, by recognizing the body as that of the Demoiselle Ida Gruget, corset-maker, living rue de la Corderie-du-Temple, number 14.  The judiciary police of Paris arrived, and the mother, bearing her daughter’s last letter.  Amid the mother’s moans, a doctor certified to death by asphyxia, through the injection of black blood into the pulmonary system,—­which settled the matter.  The inquest over, and the certificates signed, by six o’clock the same evening authority was given to bury the grisette.  The rector of the parish, however, refused to receive her into the church or to pray for her.  Ida Gruget was therefore wrapped in a shroud by an old peasant-woman, put into a common pine-coffin, and carried to the village cemetery by four men, followed by a few inquisitive peasant-women, who talked about the death with wonder mingled with some pity.

The widow Gruget was charitably taken in by an old lady who prevented her from following the sad procession of her daughter’s funeral.  A man of triple functions, the bell-ringer, beadle, and grave-digger of the parish, had dug a grave in the half-acre cemetery behind the church, —­a church well known, a classic church, with a square tower and pointed roof covered with slate, supported on the outside by strong corner buttresses.  Behind the apse of the chancel, lay the cemetery, enclosed with a dilapidated wall,—­a little field full of hillocks; no marble monuments, no visitors, but surely in every furrow, tears and true regrets, which were lacking to Ida Gruget.  She was cast into a corner full of tall grass and brambles.  After the coffin had been laid in this field, so poetic in its simplicity, the grave-digger found himself alone, for night was coming on.  While filling the grave, he stopped now and then to gaze over the wall along the road.  He was standing thus, resting on his spade, and looking at the Seine, which had brought him the body.

“Poor girl!” cried the voice of a man who suddenly appeared.

“How you made me jump, monsieur,” said the grave-digger.

“Was any service held over the body you are burying?”

“No, monsieur.  Monsieur le cure wasn’t willing.  This is the first person buried here who didn’t belong to the parish.  Everybody knows everybody else in this place.  Does monsieur—­Why, he’s gone!”

Some days had elapsed when a man dressed in black called at the house of Monsieur Jules Desmarets, and without asking to see him carried up to the chamber of his wife a large porphyry vase, on which were inscribed the words:—­