I was not acquainted with a single street of Paris, and I was
ignorant of the position of the large burial grounds (though of course I
had occasionally heard their names), and yet every effort of my mind was
directed toward ascertaining whether we were turning to the right or to
the left. Meanwhile the jolting of the hearse over the paving stones,
the rumbling of passing vehicles, the steps of the foot passengers, all
created a confused clamor, intensified by the acoustical properties of
the coffin.
At first I followed our course pretty closely; then came a halt. I was
again lifted and carried about, and I concluded that we were in church,
but when the funeral procession once more moved onward I lost all
consciousness of the road we took. A ringing of bells informed me that
we were passing another church, and then the softer and easier progress
of the wheels indicated that we were skirting a garden or park. I was
like a victim being taken to the gallows, awaiting in stupor a deathblow
that never came.
At last they stopped and pulled me out of the hearse. The business
proceeded rapidly. The noises had ceased; I knew that I was in a
deserted space amid avenues of trees and with the broad sky over my
head.
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