A week later, the church having attributed his violent death to an attack of melancholia, the funeral was in the Augustinian Church, and the Petofy coat of arms stood at the head of the catafalque, which was draped in a black velvet pall with a silver cross. Sitting in a semi-circle around the altar were his next of kin, and more distant mourners from the Asperg and Gundolskirchen families, while the entire nave of the church was agleam with uniforms. With them, a multitude of people. For the departed had at all times practiced works of mercy and had been a Christian in his deeds, however much his words might have denied it. Many people, of course, had come just out of curiosity and related in whispers what they had heard about his death: he had been leaning back in his desk chair, with no signs of outward injury at first glance, or indeed of what had happened, for he died of internal bleeding. There was speculation, too, about what had led to his death: that it had to do with a newly vacant post at court, which in earlier days had always been the preserve of the Petofys. But the emperor had been against it, either because of the young countess, or, even now, because of ‘49 and the revolution. And the old count couldn't get over that. Such was the conversation. Everyone fell silent, though, at the moment when Father Fessler appeared before the altar, and with his characteristic dignity, almost like some prince of the church, began the celebration of the funeral mass. The responsories rang out, and the candles in the crape-wound candleholders burned darker than usual, in the cloud of incense that enveloped them.