Alice went out of the door alone, and turned to the right, after the
hearse in which was her dead child.
Our croquemort would have gone ahead of her, but she would not let him
pass. She would not have him between her and her baby. She kept close,
close to the hearse, almost touching it, all the way.
The croquemort walked behind her, and the brothers and sister walked
behind him, and Claire and I at the end of it.
We went through a tangle of poor streets, narrow and crowded. People
drew back out of our way; some of them crossed themselves, and all of
them were silent for an instant as the apache baby passed.
We went through wide, forlorn streets of coal yards and warehouses and
factories. The carters and laborers in those streets stopped to look at
us and made the sign of the Cross, for the baby passing.
We went over the canal bridge and the railroad bridges, and along
desolate streets of the outskirts, all in the rain.
We went by barracks, where many blue coats, going about their duties,
or standing idly about, drew up to salute the baby in its poor little
unpainted rough box.
At the fortifications many blue coats were digging trenches, and they
all looked up and stopped their work to salute the baby.
Twice we met groups of the blue coats marching along the muddy empty
roads, and both times the officer halted his men to salute the apache
baby going by.
The bigger brother walked like a true apache, slouching and slinking
along, shoulders hunched up, head sunk down, face hidden between his
muffler and the peak of his cap. The smaller brother and the sister
slouched too. But Alice walked quite straight, her head up, close,
close to her child.
So we came to the cemetery, in at the gates, and along a street of
little marble houses, to a field where there were only wooden and black
iron crosses, and to a hole that was dug in the red, wet earth.
There was a man waiting for us by the hole. He helped the croquemort to
take the box out of the hearse and put it in the hole.
Alice stood close, close to the edge, looking down into the grave.
The rest of us stood together behind her.
The croquemort gave her a little spade, and told her what to do with it.
Then she stooped down and dug up a spadeful of earth and threw it into
the hole where they had put the box.
Each of us went in turn to give earth to earth. And then it was over.
Alice stood close, close to the edge of the hole, and looked and looked
down into it.
The croquemort said something to Alice, but she did not move. He then
spoke to the bigger brother, who shuffled up to Alice and tugged at her
sleeve.
But still she did not move.
The smaller brother began to cry.
Then the sister went to Alice and pulled at her other sleeve.
"Take her away," the croquemort said to me.