FUNERAL RITES
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skimpy black cassocks, from which several buttons were missing, ex–
posed the fuzzy bare legs of the two choir boys clad in rubber boots
of the kind so often seen on the Maquisards in Nievre; their white
lace surplices did not make them look any less masculine. They served
the priest the way one would serve a piece of artillery. The server is
the one who passes the ammunition. They served with the same faith,
the same devotion, the same promptness, whether it was the incense,
the holy water, or the responses. At the close of the church service,
they walked out at the head of the procession, followed by the priest,
the undertaker's helpers, the coffin and the servant in mourning.
A sexton came up behind them and closed the church doors. Thus,
on this interminable day, began the long night of the little servant's
journey from the church to the grave and from the grave to her room.
The horse pulled the hearse wearily. The two choir boys, one
of whom was carrying a basin of holy water, were whistling a tune
under their breaths. The priest was engaged in a monologue with
God. The little servant was perspiring under her mourning veils, in
her black garment. For a while she tried to walk as fast as the funeral
train, but she soon became so tired that the hearse outdistanced her.
Her shoes hurt her. One of them came unfastened, and she did not
dare tie it again, since she was not limber enough to bend over, and
it would not be proper, on the day of your child's funeral, in the
middle of the procession, to rest your foot on a stone, since that would
make you stop for a moment and take the cavalier pose of a proud
lady going up a fine staircase, and this would take your mind off your
grief (or off everything that stands for your grief, which is even more
serious), because you would be showing an interest in the things of
this world. There are only a few gestures allowed by ritual: you may
wipe your tears with your handkerchief. (One is permitted to know
that one has a handkerchief, although not knowing it and allowing
the tears to run down the face proves that one's grief is far greater;
but the servant was too tired to cry.)
It
is also permissible to cover
one's face with a veil. From the hospital to the church, she let her
veil down over her face, and as she looked upon the world through
a veil of transparent black she saw it as afflicted, dressed in mourning
because of her sorrow, and this moved her. Moreover, the veil, by
isolating her, conferred a dignity upon her that she had never known
in
her entire life, and the great heroine of the tragedy was her own
person.
It
was she who had died, and, for the last time, was solemnly
treading the path of the living, displaying herself to the respect of
