It would have been a strange scene for an American public, the street
corridor of the lofty house near the church of Saint Sulpice, on the
funeral afternoon.
The coffin lay upon a draped table, and festoons of crape threw phantom
shadows upon the soiled velvet covering. Each passing pedestrian and
cabman took off his hat a moment. The Southern Colony were in the
landlady's bureau enjoying a lunch and liquor, and precisely at three
o'clock they came down stairs, not more dilapidated than usual, while at
the same moment the municipal hearse drove up, attended by one _cocher_
and two _croquemorts_.[D]
[Footnote D: Literally, "parasites of death."]
The hearse was a cheap charity affair, furnished by the _Maire_ of the
_arrondissement_, though it was sprucely painted and decked with funeral
cloth. The driver wore a huge black chapeau, a white cotton cravat, and
thigh-boots, which, standing up stiffly as he sat, seemed to engulf him
to the ears.
When the _croquemorts_, in a business way, lifted the velvet from the
coffin, it was seen to be constructed of strips of deal merely,
unpainted, and not thicker than a Malaga raisin box.
There was some fear that it would fall apart of its own fragility, but
the chief _croquemort_ explained politely that such accidents never
happened.
Pages:
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39