St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1892-12-05

and the countess the disagreeable en-
barraSsment Of the final interview. HIS
last wish is to die with dlgnifed bearing,
as a man of the world who will not hear
of discommodiDg any one.
An evening comes, however. when he
can no longer breathe but with extreme
difficulty; he knows he will not last out
the night. So, when the countess comes
to make her customary inquiry, he muir
murs family, forcing his rigid features
into a last smile:
"Stay-I am not WELL"
He wishes TO avoid the busy tongues OF
the outside world. She, ON her part,
she installS herself at his side. The
doctors no longer leave the sufferer.
The two servants. finish their duties
with the same silent aSSiduity. The
children have been sent for. Roger and
Blanche, and they take their places
near the bed by their mothers side.
Other relatives are in all adjacent room.
The night passes thus in silent eXpecta-
ton. Al dawn the last Sacraments are
administered, the count receives the
communion in the presence OF all to
give a last testimony to the cause OF
religion. The foiInalities are accom-
piiShed-etiquette is satiSfied-noW he
can die.
But there is no unseemly haste. He
seemed 10 regain his fast sinking
strength in the supreme wish to avoid
all semblance of struggle or convuislYe
agony. His breath in the hollow still
ness of the vast room emitS only the
broken sounds Of the clock which is out
OF order. IT'S man well bred. mark
you, who is passing away. And when
he has embraced his wife and his chill
dren, he waves them aside with gest-
ure. falls back with his face 10 the wall,
and dies alone.
One of the doctors leans over and
closes his eyes. Then in whisper he
speaks: sit is over"
Signs and tears break upon the silence
of the vast apartment. The countess,
Roger and Blanche have fallen upon
their knees, their heads bowed down;
they weep silently; their faces cannot
be diScermed. Then the two children
lead away their mother, who, at the
door, wishing TO give evidence of her
grief, waverS for an instant with last
c0nVulsye sob. From this moment the
dead Is left TO the pompOus obsequles
of his rank.
The doctors have taken their depart
ure, assuming an air of vague regret
and sympathy which is eminently be-
coming. A priest has been sent for
from the parish to watch over the body.
The two servants remain with the
priest, seated on chairs, erect and dig
nifed. One of them notices spoon
which has been forgotten on the table.
He rises and slips it into his pocket
so that the perfect order of the
chamber may not be marred. Below, i'll
the large reception rOOTE, you can near
the sound of hammers. 1t is the up
holStererS who are arranging the room
fur the reception Of the coffin. The
whole day is given over to embalming
the body. The doors are closed. the
embalmCr is left alone with his assist
ants. When the counts body is brought
down on the morrow and exposed TO
view he is in full dress and has the
freshness of youth.
As early as on the morning of the
funeral the hotel is filed with the muir
mur OF voices. The sou and son-in-laW
OF the deceased III q room on the ground
floor, receive the thronL They bow to
each with the Silent courtesy of those
who have sustained a deep affection.
Every class Of society is represented
the nobility, the army, the magistracy;
there are even few senators and mem
berS of the Institute.
Finally at 10 O'Clock the procession
moves Oft on its way 10 the church. The
bearse Is splendid affair. adorned
with plumes and draped with hangings
and Valances OF silver. The pall-bearers
are marshal of France, a duke who
was lifelong friend OF the deceased, a
former cabinet minister and an acad-
emician. Roger de Verteuil and NJ. de
BuSSac conduct the mourning. After
them follows the thrOng of friends-a
flood OF people with black cravat and
gloves, all persons of note in society,
who gasp for breath as they pass along
the dusty road with the irregular tread
OF scattered company.
The entire population of this quarter
OF the city has t1Ocked to the windows;
the passers-by stand in rows OH the
sidewalks and with uncovered heads
watch the passage OF the triumphal
cOrtege. The traffic of the streets is in
terrup.ed by tie ipterminable line of
mourning carriages. most OF which are
empty. The omnIbuseS and cabs are
drawn up in the squares, you hear the
Oaths OF the drivers and the swapping of
whips.
And all the time the Countess de Yer
teuil, who has remained at home, is shut
up in her room, after giving out that
obC 10 OfSICOiliS Will SIlGI. OlIttCIlGU
cut on sofa, playing idly with the tas-
tai of her girdle, she looks up at the
gilded ceiling with a dreamy sense of
relief.
AT the church the ceremony lasts
nearly two hours. The clergy is all in
a f1utter. Ever since morning the busy
priests have been seen running to and
fro in surplice, giving orders, wipng
their broWs and blowing their noses
loudly. In the middle of the long nave
draped in black, the catafalque bazes
with light. AT length the crowd is
seated, the women on the left. the men
on the right, and the organ roll out the
lamentation, the chorisJers chant their
hollow groanngs and the choir boys
give utterance to sharp notes of sob
bling woe, while from the candelabra
shoot forth tall green flames which add
their wan luster to the funeral spec
tace.
rs not Faure going to sing?" asks a
deputy Of his neighbor.
Yes, think So" replied the latter,
former project of the Seine and
superb looking man who ogles the ladies
opposite.
ana when the voice of the singer
thrills through the echong nave:
"Ah, what method! What richness
of toneW he murmurs, balancing his
head with delight.
The whole aSSemblage Is fascinated.