“Get away from this.  I will not stay here,” said Felicia, furious, plucking at the wet box-coat of the driver, and seized by a wild dread at the thought of the nightmare which was pursuing her, of that which she could hear coming in a frightful rumbling, still distant, but growing nearer from minute to minute.  At the first movement of the wheels, however, the cries and shouts broke out anew.  Thinking that he would be allowed to cross the square, the driver had penetrated with great difficulty to the front ranks of the crowd; it now closed behind him and refused to allow him to go forward.  There they had to remain, to endure those odours of common people and of alcohol, those curious glances, already fired by the prospect of an exceptional spectacle.  They stared rudely at the beautiful traveller who was starting off with so many trunks, and a dog of such size for her defender.  Crenmitz was horribly afraid; Felicia, for her part, could think of only one thing, and that was that he was about to pass before her eyes, that she would be in the front rank to see him.

Suddenly a great shout “Here it comes!” Then silence fell on the whole square at last at the end of three weary hours of waiting.

It came.

Felicia’s first impulse was to lower the blind on her side, on the side past which the procession was about to pass.  But at the rolling of the drums close at hand, seized by the nervous wrath at her inability to escape the obsession of the thing, perhaps also infected by the morbid curiosity around her, she suddenly let the blind fly up, and her pale and passionate little face showed itself at the window, supported by her two clinched hands.

“There! since you will have it:  I am watching you.”

As a funeral it was as fine a thing as can be seen, the supreme honours rendered in all their vain splendour, as sonorous, as hollow as the rhythmic accompaniment on the muffled drums.  First the white surplices of the clergy, amid the mourning drapery of the first five carriages; next, drawn by six black horses, veritable horses of Erebus, there advanced the funeral car, all beplumed, fringed and embroidered in silver, with big tears, heraldic coronets surmounting gigantic M’s, prophetic initials which seemed those of Death himself, La Mort made a duchess decorated with the eight waving plumes.  So many canopies and massive hangings hid the vulgar body of the hearse, as it trembled and quivered at each step from top to bottom as though crushed beneath the majesty of its dead burden.  On the coffin, the sword, the coat, the embroidered hat, parade undress—­which had never been worn—­shone with gold and mother-of-pearl in the darkened little tent formed by the hangings and among the bright tints of fresh flowers telling of spring in spite of the sullenness of the sky.  At a distance of ten paces came the household servants of the duke; then, behind, in majestic isolation, the cloaked officer bearing the emblems of honour—­a veritable display of all the orders of the whole world—­crosses, multicoloured ribbons, which covered to overflowing the cushion of black velvet with silver fringe.