There is, in the cemetery of Pere Lachaise, in the neighborhood
of the Potters' field, far from the elegant quartier of the city of
sepulchers, far from all those fantastic tombs which display in
presence of eternity the hideous fashions of death, in a deserted
corner, beside an old wall, beneath a great yew on which the
bindweed climbs, among the dog-grass and the mosses, a stone.
This stone is exempt no more than the rest from the leprosy of
time, from the mould, the lichen, and the droppings of the birds.
The air turns it black, the water green. It is near no path, and
people do not like to go in that direction, because the grass is
high, and they would wet their feet.  When there is a little
sunshine, the lizards come out.  There is, all about, a rustilng
of wild oats.  In the spring, the linnets sing in the tree.  The
stone is entirely blank.  The only thought in cutting it was
of the essentials of the grave, and there was no other care
than to make this stone long enough and narrow enough
to cover a man.  No name can be read there.