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weeping.




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November . Rose is dead. Decidedly, misfortune hangs over the captain's house. Poor captain! His ferret dead . . . Bourbaki dead . . . and now it is Rose's turn! After a sickness of some days, she was carried off day before yesterday, in the evening, by a sudden attack of congestion of the lungs. She was buried this morning. From the windows of the linen-room I saw the procession pass in the road. The heavy coffin, borne by six men, was covered with crowns and with bunches of white flowers, like that of a young virgin. A con- siderable crowd, in long, dark, babbling files, — all Mesnil-Roy — followed Captain Mauger, who, wearing a tightly-fitting black frock-coat, and hold- ing himself very stiffly, led the mourners, in thor- oughly military fashion. And the church bells, tolling in the distance, responded to the sound of the rattle waved by the beadle. Madame had warned me that I was not to go to the funeral. However, I had no desire to go. I did not like this fat and wicked woman; her death leaves me very calm and indifferent. Yet perhaps I shall miss Rose ; perhaps I shall miss my occasional conversations with her in the road. But what a source of gossip this event must be at th