With all my eyes, I say....
The street was full of people, crowding sidewalks and pavement, edging
about this way and that and talking in hushed voices. Most of them were
dressed in black. A goodly number of military and naval men in parade
uniform were standing to one side, grouped around some higher officers
whose plumes I could distinguish over the heads of the throng. Among
them a tall impressive personage, with a grand cordon on his breast.
A noble face of regular outlines! Ah yes! My admiral, the governor!
Vice-Admiral de Fierce!
A Cross, with priests behind it. The red cauls of the choir boys stand
out against the surplices and albs of white and gold. A canon’s gown is
fidgeting nervously about in the company of clergy....
Farther on, a squad of colonial troops, drawn up in line, their guns at
rest.... They are waiting for something, apparently....
Spectators looking on from the windows and down from the roofs and
balconies of the houses.... Flocks of urchins climbing pillars and
posts, seeking points of vantage.... But there is no laughing nor
shouting. The crowd is in a serious, earnest mood, or is trying to seem
so.
All eyes are on the door of my house, which is heavily draped in
mourning. A shield of velvet has been set up above the casing and on it
I can read two initials in silver: _A. N._ Of course: _A. N._: André
Narcy! That’s what they must stand for.
Of course! I understand! My funeral! Of course!
Here is the hearse, slowly drawing up as the crowd divides before it.
The horses are heavily caparisoned; on the four ebony columns that
adorn the coffin-rest, four heavy plumes are waving. And oh, how many
wreathes! Ten, twenty, thirty of them I can count, all of them bedecked
with the tricolor of my country! On each an inscription in letters of
gold. I cannot read them at this distance. Perhaps, later, when they
pass this way....
Ah!... What’s the matter now? The crowd is all astir.... They are
probably bringing out the body.... Yes, there it is ... the hooded
bearers are coming down from the front door. How fast they walk! Not
much of a load after all.... I rise on tip-toe to see better.... My
coffin is of the flat topped kind common in the South of France! The
wood cannot be seen. They have draped it in a heavy cloth.... Here are
some other men in hoods.... They go up to the hearse and place on my
coffin a military cloak of mine--light blue--then a cavalry sabre, with
its scabbard; and these clink as they are laid one across the other.
Of course ... that’s the custom at military funerals ... my uniform
and my sword! I suppose my Distinguished Service Cross is there.... I
cannot see it.... There is hardly time to look at everything.... For
... something else I see ... yes ... with those other eyes of mine,
those moving unfailing eyes that can see through walls, and rocks, and
trees.... They can see just as well through the boards of a coffin....
Yes, I see, I see perfectly well!
Oh! Oh! Oh! What horror! What horror!
* * * * * * * * *
A blast of trumpets.... The cortège moves....
Leading the way come the priests chanting the ritual ... the ritual of
the dead.... Then eight officers, the pall-bearers of honor. Then the
soldiers.... At last, the hearse....
Oh, careful, careful, please! The springs of the hearse creak over
the rough pavement! Oh, careful, careful, please! You are jostling me
too hard, too hard! It is a poor miserable corpse you are carrying
there.... It must not be treated so! Look out! Don’t you see there,
under the hearse? The coffin is leaking! Black drops are oozing out and
falling one by one upon the pavement.
* * * * * * * * *
The crowd moves off behind the procession.
Now they have turned the corner ... on the way to the church ... and
thence to the cemetery. They seem to be hurrying ... yes ... because
night is falling fast....
One by one the windows close. The street is empty now.
* * * * * * * * *
I remained where I was, my back still propped against the wall. My
weariness overcame me suddenly. My legs gave way at the knees. I
slipped slowly to the ground.
Yet the determination to go on arose within me. I got to my feet,
somehow. I crossed the street toward my house! Toward my house--of
course! Where else should I go, except to my house?
The front door had been left open, the heavy black crêpe dangling
around it. I reached the threshold! I stopped.
There in the hall-way stood a little table covered with a black
silk tablecloth. On it was an ink-well, a pen, and a heavy funeral
register. Through the open door a draught was coming strong, blowing
the black-bordered pages over one by one.