"Come, Anne," said madame softly.
"Let me watch," said Anne. "I have always loved him."
They buried Victor under the hill, at the foot of a kingly pine where a
hawk had builded his eery home. A loving hand had carved upon the tree
these words: "Here lies Victor de Saumaise, a brave and gallant
Frenchman, a poet, a gentleman, and soldier. He lived honorably and he
died well." Close to the shores of the lake they buried the vicomte
and the last of the D'Hérouvilles. But only a roll of earth tells
where they lie. Thus, a heart of sunshine and two hearts of storm
repose in the eternal shadow, in peace, in silence. The same winds
whisper mournfully above them, or sing joyously, or breathe in thunder.
The heat of summer and the chill of winter pass and repass; the long
grasses grow and die; the sun and the moon and the throbbing stars
spread light upon these sepulchers. Two hundred and fifty years have
come and gone, yet do they lie as on that day. After death,
inanimation; only the inanimate is changeless.