XXXVII

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.

I turned them back, and found the frontispiece.

It was covered with hastily scribbled signatures. There my friends and messmates, along with many strangers, had written their names, as the custom is. Yes, and heading them all, was my name, the name I had formerly had, that is. It was not written, however, but penned in print:

MONSIEUR CHARLES-ANDRÉ NARCY

CAPTAIN OF CAVALRY, D.S.C.

Died the twenty-first of December, 1908, in the
thirty-third year of his age.

I picked up the register and hid it under my clothing—the threadbare rags that had once been my riding suit.

And I went away!

I went away. Why not? This house belonged to Captain Charles-André Narcy—the man who was dead.... My house was somewhere else ... obviously ... somewhere else.

I went away.

* * * * * * * * *

And I too walked rapidly, outside in the street.... Rapidly, yes; though I staggered at every step from sheer exhaustion....

The street was ... no ... it was not quite deserted.... There, on the sidewalk across from me stood ... a man? a woman? Someone! Someone who was standing motionless in front of the house, and looking at the door that was heavily draped in mourning....

A man? A woman? A woman! A good-looking woman ... well dressed ... a single piece dress of a light color.... She was carrying a muff, a big fluffy muff that completely swallowed her small hands ... a muff of ermine....

I knew the woman. Of course! It was she ... Madeleine.... I knew her very well. But, you understand ... I was dead, was I not? Besides, I was very, very old.... Surprised more than moved.... In fact, not at all aroused ... my emotions! Just surprised! But very much surprised!

Anyhow ... I would just walk by her ... curiosity merely....

Yes, she, beyond a doubt.... Her eyes were glued to the door of mourning. And I could see ... that was strange!... why, she was weeping, weeping ... great silent burning tears!

Weeping? That was strange! I hadn’t expected to find her weeping! Oh, for that matter ... a woman’s tears!

All the same, I felt I ought to do something....

With a moment’s hesitation I stepped up to her:

“Mad....”

She started from her grieving reverie, saw that I was there, swept her great muff across her tear-stained cheeks.... Then she felt around inside the muff with her fingers, tossed me a handful of coins ... and fled....