Two funerals, he says, on a certain day wended their course toward the cemetery of _Pere la Chaise_. One bier bore the body of a man; the other, the body of a woman. The day was a sour November day--with the half-mist and half-frostiness that sometimes ushers in the Paris winter. The mourners were few--as mourners at Paris are generally few. Arrived within the gates, one _cortege_ took the path leading to the right; the other turned to the left. The ceremonies being over, a single mourner only remained at each tomb. At the grave of the lady lingered a man, apparently overcome with grief; at the grave of the man--a lady, who seemed equally overcome. Their adieus were lengthened at the graves until all the attendants had disappeared. By chance, the grief of the two parties seemed to show the same amount of persistent sorrow, and of lingering regard: thus it happened that in retracing their slow and saddened steps toward the main entrance, they met in the grand alley face to face. They exchanged a look of sorrow, and an exclamation of surprise. "You, madame?" "_Vous, monsieur?_" "But this is very strange," continued the gentleman, "is it not? We have met so rarely, since we broke our marriage contract ten years ago!" "The chance which has led me here is a very sad one, monsieur," and madame says it in very dolorous tones. "It is as much for me; I have followed to the grave a person very dear to me." "Ah," returns madame, "she is dead! I, too, have lost my dearest friend," and she sobs. "I beg you would accept, madame, my sincerest sympathy." "And you too, sir; believe me, my heart bleeds for you." Upon thus much of mournful interchange of grief, supervenes a silence--only broken by the low steps of the parties, and by occasional sobs of lament. Guinot opens their conversation again thus: _Gentleman._--"Alas, existence seems to me very worthless--all is dark!" _Lady._--"Ah, what must it be for me, then?" _Gentleman._--"How can I ever replace her fondness?" _Lady._--"To whom can I confide my griefs?" _Gentleman._--"What home will now receive me?" _Lady._--"Upon whose arm can I lean?" In such humor our racy _feuilletonist_ traces their walk and conversation along the parterres of that Paris garden of death; at the gate he dismisses one of the two carriages which attend them; he crowns their mutual offices of consolation with a happy reunion--never to be broken--till one shall be again a mourner, and the other a tenant of the tomb. Thus, says he, grief moralizes; and wise resolutions ride at an easy gallop, into broken hearts! And thus, we say, French ingenuity makes every hearse the carrier of a romance; and seasons the deepest woe with the piquancy of an intrigue! Yet another story is swimming in our ink-stand; and with a gracious lift of the pen we shall stretch it upon our sheet.