By Anatole France
This tale the sacristan of the church of St. Eulalie at Neuvilled’Aumont told me， as we sat under the arbor of the WhiteHorse， one fine summer evening， drinking a bottle of old wineto the health of the dead man， now very much at his ease，whom that very morning he had borne to the grave with fullhonors， beneath a pall powdered with smart silver tears.
“My poor father who is dead” （it is the sacristan who isspeaking，） “was in his lifetime a grave-digger. He was of anagreeable disposition， the result， no doubt， of the calling hefollowed， for it has often been pointed out that people whowork in cemeteries are of a jovial turn. Death has no terrors forthem； they never give it a thought. I， for instance， monsieur，enter a cemetery at night as little perturbed as though it werethe arbor of the White Horse. And if by chance I meet with aghost， I don’t disturb myself in the least about it， for I reflectthat he may just as likely have business of his own to attend toas I. I know the habits of the dead， and I know their character.
Indeed， so far as that goes， I know things of which the prieststhemselves are ignorant. If I were to tell you all I have seen，you would be astounded. But a still tongue makes a wisehead， and my father， who， all the same， delighted in spinninga yarn， did not disclose a twentieth part of what he knew. Tomake up for this he often repeated the same stories， and to myknowledge he told the story of Catherine Fontaine at least ahundred times.
“Catherine Fontaine was an old maid whom he wellremembered having seen when he was a mere child. I shouldnot be surprised if there were still， perhaps， three old fellows inthe district who could remember having heard folks speak ofher， for she was very well known and of excellent reputation，though poor enough. She lived at the corner of the Rue auxNonnes， in the turret which is still to be seen there， and whichformed part of an old half-ruined mansion looking on to thegarden of the Ursuline nuns. On that turret can still be tracedcertain figures and half-obliterated inions. The late curéof St. Eulalie， Monsieur Levasseur， asserted that there are thewords in Latin， Love is stronger than death， ‘which is to beunderstood，’ so he would add， ‘of divine love.’
“Catherine Fontaine lived by herself in this tiny apartment.
She was a lace-maker. You know， of course， that the lace madein our part of the world was formerly held in high esteem. Noone knew anything of her relatives or friends. It was reportedthat when she was eighteen years of age she had loved theyoung Chevalier d’Aumont-Cléry， and had been secretlyaffianced to him. But decent folk didn’t believe a word of it，and said it was nothing but a tale concocted because CatherineFontaine’s demeanor was that of a lady rather than that ofa working woman， and because， moreover， she possessedbeneath her white locks the remains of great beauty. Herexpression was sorrowful， and on one finger she wore one ofthose rings fashioned by the goldsmith into the semblance oftwo tiny hands clasped together. In former days folks wereaccustomed to exchange such rings at their betrothal ceremony.
I am sure you know the sort of thing I mean.
“Catherine Fontaine lived a saintly life. She spent a greatdeal of time in churches， and every morning， whatever mightbe the weather， she went to assist at the six o’clock Mass at St.
Eulalie.
