Camille (La Dame aux Camilias)

"What does he want there?"

"He has gone to get her authority to have the corpse dug up again and

put somewhere else."

"Why won't he let it remain here?"

"You know, sir, people have queer notions about dead folk. We see

something of that every day. The ground here was only bought for five

years, and this young gentleman wants a perpetual lease and a bigger

plot of ground; it will be better in the new part."

"What do you call the new part?"

"The new plots of ground that are for sale, there to the left. If the

cemetery had always been kept like it is now, there wouldn't be the like

of it in the world; but there is still plenty to do before it will be

quite all it should be. And then people are so queer!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that there are people who carry their pride even here. Now, this

Demoiselle Gautier, it appears she lived a bit free, if you'll excuse my

saying so. Poor lady, she's dead now; there's no more of her left than

of them that no one has a word to say against. We water them every day.

Well, when the relatives of the folk that are buried beside her found

out the sort of person she was, what do you think they said? That they

would try to keep her out from here, and that there ought to be a piece

of ground somewhere apart for these sort of women, like there is for the

poor. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I gave it to them straight, I

did: well-to-do folk who come to see their dead four times a year, and

bring their flowers themselves, and what flowers! and look twice at the

keep of them they pretend to cry over, and write on their tombstones all

about the tears they haven't shed, and come and make difficulties about

their neighbours. You may believe me or not, sir, I never knew the young

lady; I don't know what she did. Well, I'm quite in love with the poor

thing; I look after her well, and I let her have her camellias at an

honest price. She is the dead body that I like the best. You see, sir,

we are obliged to love the dead, for we are kept so busy, we have hardly

time to love anything else."

I looked at the man, and some of my readers will understand, without my

needing to explain it to them, the emotion which I felt on hearing him.

He observed it, no doubt, for he went on: "They tell me there were people who ruined themselves over that girl,

and lovers that worshipped her; well, when I think there isn't one of

them that so much as buys her a flower now, that's queer, sir, and

sad. And, after all, she isn't so badly off, for she has her grave to

herself, and if there is only one who remembers her, he makes up for the

others. But we have other poor girls here, just like her and just her

age, and they are just thrown into a pauper's grave, and it breaks my

heart when I hear their poor bodies drop into the earth. And not a soul

thinks about them any more, once they are dead! 'Tisn't a merry trade,

ours, especially when we have a little heart left. What do you expect? I

can't help it. I have a fine, strapping girl myself; she's just twenty,

and when a girl of that age comes here I think of her, and I don't care

if it's a great lady or a vagabond, I can't help feeling it a bit. But

I am taking up your time, sir, with my tales, and it wasn't to hear them

you came here. I was told to show you Mlle. Gautier's grave; here you

have it. Is there anything else I can do for you?"