I will not exaggerate my grief; I will simply say that I loved my uncle as a father, and my sorrow for his loss was full and sincere. In my absence, the two keepers—the one named Flobert, and the other, Lafeuille—had taken it in turns to minister to his little wants. When he died, Flobert was in the house. I called, and he came to me. The name of Drouet filled my heart, and rested on my lips. At that moment a post-chaise passed, going in the direction of St. Menehould. I ran after the postilion, my eyes filled with tears. “Tell M. Jean Baptiste,” cried I to him, “that my uncle died at the moment of my arrival.” “Is it possible? Poor Descharmes! I spoke to him yesterday! He was seated in his easy-chair, in the doorway, and he told me that he expected you this evening.” He then drove on. “You will not forget to tell M. Drouet, will you?” I repeated. “Certainly not. Do not be afraid, M. Réné; I shall not forget it.” I had such confidence in M. Drouet, that I did not think it necessary to ask him to come. I had only to tell him my sorrow, and I knew that he would come. As I expected, two hours after, I heard the gallop of a horse. I rushed to the door, and M. Drouet was there. He had met M. Fortin as he was coming in the same carriage which had taken him to the Federation. He had pressed on his steed; he had seen Marguerite in passing; and in all probability the good priest would be there in an hour, with his housekeeper, to say the prayers for the dead by the bedside of Father Descharmes. M. Drouet wished to lead me away; but, smiling, in the midst of my tears, “What would my poor uncle say of me on high,” I said, “if any other hand than mine performed the last sad offices for the dead?” “Do you feel yourself strong enough for it?” asked M. Drouet. “Is it not my duty?” “Without doubt. But one cannot always do one’s duty.” “I hope that heaven will always give me strength enough to perform mine.” “Breathe that prayer night and morning, and it will be of more benefit than all the prayers printed in the Church Service.” The burial was to take place at four o’clock in the Cemetery of Islettes. After it was over, he proposed that I should go with him to St. Menehould, to pass the night, and in the following morning with a notary, who would arrange the deceased man’s papers &c., &c. In the afternoon, at four o’clock, my uncle’s corpse, accompanied by the whole village of Islettes, followed by me, his sole relative, and by Drouet, Billard, Guillaume, Mathieu, and Bertrand, his friends, was placed in its last resting-place, accompanied by the blessings of the Abbé Fortin, and all those who knew his upright and irreproachable life. The funeral over, M. Drouet put the key of the cottage in his own pocket. Then we mounted into M. Drouet’s cabriolet, and drove off to St. Menehould.