Tombstones by Guy de Maupassant
The five friends had finished dinner, five men of the world, mature,
rich, three married, the two others bachelors. They met like this every
month in memory of their youth, and after dinner they chatted until two
o'clock in the morning. Having remained intimate friends, and enjoying
each other's society, they probably considered these the pleasantest
evenings of their lives. They talked on every subject, especially of what
interested and amused Parisians. Their conversation was, as in the
majority of salons elsewhere, a verbal rehash of what they had read in
the morning papers.
One of the most lively of them was Joseph de Bardon, a celibate living
the Parisian life in its fullest and most whimsical manner. He was not a
debauche nor depraved, but a singular, happy fellow, still young, for he
was scarcely forty. A man of the world in its widest and best sense,
gifted with a brilliant, but not profound, mind, with much varied
knowledge, but no true erudition, ready comprehension without true
understanding, he drew from his observations, his adventures, from
everything he saw, met with and found, anecdotes at once comical and
philosophical, and made humorous remarks that gave him a great reputation
for cleverness in society.
He was the after dinner speaker and had his own story each time, upon
which they counted, and he talked without having to be coaxed.
As he sat smoking, his elbows on the table, a petit verre half full
beside his plate, half torpid in an atmosphere of tobacco blended with
steaming coffee, he seemed to be perfectly at home. He said between two
"A curious thing happened to me some time ago."
"Tell it to us," they all exclaimed at once.
"With pleasure. You know that I wander about Paris a great deal, like
book collectors who ransack book stalls. I just look at the sights, at
the people, at all that is passing by and all that is going on.
"Toward the middle of September—it was beautiful weather—I
went out one afternoon, not knowing where I was going. One always has a
vague wish to call on some pretty woman or other. One chooses among them
in one's mental picture gallery, compares them in one's mind, weighs the
interest with which they inspire you, their comparative charms and
finally decides according to the influence of the day. But when the sun
is very bright and the air warm, it takes away from you all desire to
"The sun was bright, the air warm. I lighted a cigar and sauntered
aimlessly along the outer boulevard. Then, as I strolled on, it occurred
to me to walk as far as Montmartre and go into the cemetery.
"I am very fond of cemeteries. They rest me and give me a feeling of
sadness; I need it. And, besides, I have good friends in there, those
that one no longer goes to call on, and I go there from time to time.
"It is in this cemetery of Montmartre that is buried a romance of my
life, a sweetheart who made a great impression on me, a very emotional,
charming little woman whose memory, although it causes me great sorrow,
also fills me with regrets—regrets of all kinds. And I go to dream
beside her grave. She has finished with life.
"And then I like cemeteries because they are immense cities filled to
overflowing with inhabitants. Think how many dead people there are in
this small space, think of all the generations of Parisians who are
housed there forever, veritable troglodytes enclosed in their little
vaults, in their little graves covered with a stone or marked by a cross,
while living beings take up so much room and make so much noise
—imbeciles that they are!
"Then, again, in cemeteries there are monuments almost as interesting as
in museums. The tomb of Cavaignac reminded me, I must confess without
making any comparison, of the chef d'oeuvre of Jean Goujon: the recumbent
statue of Louis de Breze in the subterranean chapel of the Cathedral of
Rouen. All modern and realistic art has originated there, messieurs. This
dead man, Louis de Breze, is more real, more terrible, more like
inanimate flesh still convulsed with the death agony than all the
tortured corpses that are distorted to-day in funeral monuments.
"But in Montmartre one can yet admire Baudin's monument, which has a
degree of grandeur; that of Gautier, of Murger, on which I saw the other
day a simple, paltry wreath of immortelles, yellow immortelles, brought
thither by whom? Possibly by the last grisette, very old and now
janitress in the neighborhood. It is a pretty little statue by Millet,
but ruined by dirt and neglect. Sing of youth, O Murger!
"Well, there I was in Montmartre Cemetery, and was all at once filled
with sadness, a sadness that is not all pain, a kind of sadness that
makes you think when you are in good health, 'This place is not amusing,
but my time has not come yet.'
"The feeling of autumn, of the warm moisture which is redolent of the
death of the leaves, and the weakened, weary, anaemic sun increased,
while rendering it poetical, the sensation of solitude and of finality
that hovered over this spot which savors of human mortality.
"I walked along slowly amid these streets of tombs, where the neighbors
do not visit each other, do not sleep together and do not read the
newspapers. And I began to read the epitaphs. That is the most amusing
thing in the world. Never did Labiche or Meilhac make me laugh as I have
laughed at the comical inscriptions on tombstones. Oh, how much superior
to the books of Paul de Kock for getting rid of the spleen are these
marble slabs and these crosses where the relatives of the deceased have
unburdened their sorrow, their desires for the happiness of the vanished
ones and their hope of rejoining them—humbugs!
"But I love above all in this cemetery the deserted portion, solitary,
full of great yews and cypresses, the older portion, belonging to those
dead long since, and which will soon be taken into use again; the growing
trees nourished by the human corpses cut down in order to bury in rows
beneath little slabs of marble those who have died more recently.
"When I had sauntered about long enough to refresh my mind I felt that I
would soon have had enough of it and that I must place the faithful
homage of my remembrance on my little friend's last resting place. I felt
a tightening of the heart as I reached her grave. Poor dear, she was so
dainty, so loving and so white and fresh—and now—if one
should open the grave—
"Leaning over the iron grating, I told her of my sorrow in a low tone,
which she doubtless did not hear, and was moving away when I saw a woman
in black, in deep mourning, kneeling on the next grave. Her crape veil
was turned back, uncovering a pretty fair head, the hair in Madonna bands
looking like rays of dawn beneath her sombre headdress. I stayed.
"Surely she must be in profound grief. She had covered her face with her
hands and, standing there in meditation, rigid as a statue, given up to
her grief, telling the sad rosary of her remembrances within the shadow
of her concealed and closed eyes, she herself seemed like a dead person
mourning another who was dead. All at once a little motion of her back,
like a flutter of wind through a willow, led me to suppose that she was
going to cry. She wept softly at first, then louder, with quick motions
of her neck and shoulders. Suddenly she uncovered her eyes. They were
full of tears and charming, the eyes of a bewildered woman, with which
she glanced about her as if awaking from a nightmare. She looked at me,
seemed abashed and hid her face completely in her hands. Then she sobbed
convulsively, and her head slowly bent down toward the marble. She leaned
her forehead on it, and her veil spreading around her, covered the white
corners of the beloved tomb, like a fresh token of mourning. I heard her
sigh, then she sank down with her cheek on the marble slab and remained
"I darted toward her, slapped her hands, blew on her eyelids, while I
read this simple epitaph: 'Here lies Louis-Theodore Carrel, Captain of
Marine Infantry, killed by the enemy at Tonquin. Pray for him.'
"He had died some months before. I was affected to tears and redoubled my
attentions. They were successful. She regained consciousness. I appeared
very much moved. I am not bad looking, I am not forty. I saw by her first
glance that she would be polite and grateful. She was, and amid more
tears she told me her history in detached fragments as well as her
gasping breath would allow, how the officer was killed at Tonquin when
they had been married a year, how she had married him for love, and being
an orphan, she had only the usual dowry.
"I consoled her, I comforted her, raised her and lifted her on her feet.
Then I said:
"'Do not stay here. Come.'
"'I am unable to walk,' she murmured.
"'I will support you.'
"'Thank you, sir; you are good. Did you also come to mourn for some one?'
"'A dead friend?'
"'One may love a friend as much as they love their wife. Love has no
"And we set off together, she leaning on my arm, while I almost carried
her along the paths of the cemetery. When we got outside she faltered:
"'I feel as if I were going to be ill.'
"'Would you like to go in anywhere, to take something?'
"I perceived a restaurant, one of those places where the mourners of the
dead go to celebrate the funeral. We went in. I made her drink a cup of
hot tea, which seemed to revive her. A faint smile came to her lips. She
began to talk about herself. It was sad, so sad to be always alone in
life, alone in one's home, night and day, to have no one on whom one can
bestow affection, confidence, intimacy.
"That sounded sincere. It sounded pretty from her mouth. I was touched.
She was very young, perhaps twenty. I paid her compliments, which she
took in good part. Then, as time was passing, I suggested taking her home
in a carriage. She accepted, and in the cab we sat so close that our
"When the cab stopped at her house she murmured: 'I do not feel equal to
going upstairs alone, for I live on the fourth floor. You have been so
good. Will you let me take your arm as far as my own door?'
"I agreed with eagerness. She ascended the stairs slowly, breathing hard.
Then, as we stood at her door, she said:
"'Come in a few moments so that I may thank you.'
"And, by Jove, I went in. Everything was modest, even rather poor, but
simple and in good taste.
"We sat down side by side on a little sofa and she began to talk again
about her loneliness. She rang for her maid, in order to offer me some
wine. The maid did not come. I was delighted, thinking that this maid
probably came in the morning only, what one calls a charwoman.
"She had taken off her hat. She was really pretty, and she gazed at me
with her clear eyes, gazed so hard and her eyes were so clear that I was
terribly tempted. I caught her in my arms and rained kisses on her
eyelids, which she closed suddenly.
"She freed herself and pushed me away, saying:
"'Have done, have done.'
"But I next kissed her on the mouth and she did not resist, and as our
glances met after thus outraging the memory of the captain killed in
Tonquin, I saw that she had a languid, resigned expression that set my
mind at rest.
"I became very attentive and, after chatting for some time, I said:
"'Where do you dine?'
"'In a little restaurant in the neighborhood:
"'Will you dine with me?'
"'In a good restaurant on the Boulevard.'
"She demurred a little. I insisted. She yielded, saying by way of apology
to herself: 'I am so lonely—so lonely.' Then she added:
"'I must put on something less sombre, and went into her bedroom. When
she reappeared she was dressed in half-mourning, charming, dainty and
slender in a very simple gray dress. She evidently had a costume for the
cemetery and one for the town.
"The dinner was very enjoyable. She drank some champagne, brightened up,
grew lively and I went home with her.
"This friendship, begun amid the tombs, lasted about three weeks. But one
gets tired of everything, especially of women. I left her under pretext
of an imperative journey. She made me promise that I would come and see
her on my return. She seemed to be really rather attached to me.
"Other things occupied my attention, and it was about a month before I
thought much about this little cemetery friend. However, I did not forget
her. The recollection of her haunted me like a mystery, like a
psychological problem, one of those inexplicable questions whose solution
"I do not know why, but one day I thought I might possibly meet her in
the Montmartre Cemetery, and I went there.
"I walked about a long time without meeting any but the ordinary visitors
to this spot, those who have not yet broken off all relations with their
dead. The grave of the captain killed at Tonquin had no mourner on its
marble slab, no flowers, no wreath.
"But as I wandered in another direction of this great city of the dead I
perceived suddenly, at the end of a narrow avenue of crosses, a couple in
deep mourning walking toward me, a man and a woman. Oh, horrors! As they
approached I recognized her. It was she!
"She saw me, blushed, and as I brushed past her she gave me a little
signal, a tiny little signal with her eye, which meant: 'Do not recognize
me!' and also seemed to say, 'Come back to see me again, my dear!'
"The man was a gentleman, distingue, chic, an officer of the Legion of
Honor, about fifty years old. He was supporting her as I had supported
her myself when we were leaving the cemetery.
"I went my way, filled with amazement, asking myself what this all meant,
to what race of beings belonged this huntress of the tombs? Was she just
a common girl, one who went to seek among the tombs for men who were in
sorrow, haunted by the recollection of some woman, a wife or a
sweetheart, and still troubled by the memory of vanished caresses? Was
she unique? Are there many such? Is it a profession? Do they parade the
cemetery as they parade the street? Or else was she only impressed with
the admirable, profoundly philosophical idea of exploiting love
recollections, which are revived in these funereal places?
"And I would have liked to know whose widow she was on that special day."