It was all over. He was dead. The affectionate creature had fallen a victim to the violence and malignity of human passions. Man had betrayed him for a woman's sake. And now his graceful form, made for swift movement, was infinitely sad to see, because the eye could see clearly all that there was in its immobility contrary to the purpose for which it was designed--and irreparable. Renaud gazed stupidly at him.--He saw again, like so many reproachful words, Blanchet's last look, his short, rapid breath, the shudder that ran over his bleeding skin. And, restored to his senses by this unforeseen catastrophe which awoke a thousand salutary thoughts in his mind, he felt his heart grow soft. He burst into tears. Thus Blanchet served his mistress still by his death. "Everything is of some use," said Sigaud. Renaud stooped and returned, upon his still warm nostrils, the kiss he had received from him on the day of his first despair; then, having removed the saddle and bridle and concealed them in a safe place, he returned on foot to the Icard farm, with an intense, affectionate desire to do his utmost to care for and comfort poor Livette, for the death of her horse brought him back to her more quickly than anything else could have done. He promised himself that he would return and bury Blanchet, but he did not have time. The good horse belonged to the vulture and the eagle. In the evening of that same day, while Livette, sleeping soundly, seemed to everybody to be out of danger,--while Renaud lay, like a dog, in front of her door, determined to defend and save her,--Zinzara arrived at the Alyscamps at Arles. There, thinking that Renaud might, with the devil's assistance, succeed in overtaking her,--although she may have had her reasons for thinking that his horse was not in condition for service at that time,--she left her house on wheels, in order that she might not be taken by surprise therein like a wild beast in its lair,--not from fear, but because she was desirous, before all else, not to see him again. She went to the farther end of the Allée des Alyscamps, between the rows of tall poplars, amid the stone monuments, and lighted a fire of twigs, to give her light enough to look about and select a spot where she could sleep comfortably. She went there late, when the lovers who congregate there on May evenings, to make love upon the tombs, had returned to the sleeping city. Along the whole length of the avenue, between the tall, straight poplars, run two rows of sarcophagi, some very high, with massive lids, others low and without lids, with a few scattered blossoms, sown by the wind, at the bottom. The dead who once slept there were sent down to Arles in sealed urns, abandoned to the current of the Rhône by the cities farther up the river. Now flowers are springing from their dust; and their open tombs are nothing more than beds for vagabonds and lovers.