Con mortuis in lingua mortua

At the Montparnasse Cemetery, looking at Jacques Demy’s grave.  It's just a few blocks from his former house (and Varda's current).  It’s festooned with flowers and things; not nearly Jim Morrison territory, but clearly the grave of a famous person.  It is a bright sunny day, the first after quite a string of rainy days.  I notice what looks like a packet of photos in a plastic sleeve lying on the grave.  There is condensation inside the plastic, making it hard to see the photo on top.  I resign myself to wondering, then walk away.  But curiosity gets the better of me, and I go back; after much looking around to see if I’m being observed, I bend down and pick up the pack to have a look.  The problem is that the condensation makes it hard to extricate individual photos; they are, in fact, pretty soaked.  I manage to see a few, but they are extremely hard to make out, as in they are badly taken.  Some turn out to be postcards, and pretty anonymous ones.  I put things back as best I can and guiltily sneak away, as mystified as before I looked.