All the speeches are over; three long speeches as icy as the vault into which the dead man has just descended, three official declamations which, above all, have provided the orators with an opportunity of giving loud voice to their own devotion to the interests of the dynasty. Fifteen times the guns have roused the many echoes of the cemetery, shaken the wreaths of jet and everlasting flowers--the light _ex-voto_ offerings suspended at the corners of the monuments--and while a reddish mist floats and rolls with a smell of gunpowder across the city of the dead, ascends and mingles slowly with the smoke of factories in the plebeian district, the innumerable assembly disperses also, scattered through the steep streets, down the lofty steps all white among the foliage, with a confused murmur, a rippling as of waves over rocks. Purple robes, black robes, blue and green coats, shoulder-knots of gold, slender swords, of whose safety the wearers assure themselves with their hands as they walk, all hasten to regain their carriages. People exchange low bows, discreet smiles, while the mourning-coaches tear down the carriage-ways at a gallop, revealing long lines of black coachmen, with backs bent, hats tilted forward, the box-coats flying in the wind made by their rapid motion. The general impression is one of thankfulness to have reached the end of a long and fatiguing performance, a legitimate eagerness to quit the administrative harness and ceremonial costumes, to unbuckle sashes, to loosen stand-up collars and neckbands, to slacken the tension of facial muscles, which had been subject to long restraint. Heavy and short, dragging along his swollen legs with difficulty, Hemerlingue was hastening towards the exit, declining the offers which were made to him of a seat in this or that carriage, since he knew well that his own alone was of size adequate to cope with his proportions. “Baron, Baron, this way. There is room for you.” “No, thank you. I want to walk to straighten my legs.”