But the supplications of her daughter and Pepeta"s will were stronger, and Teresa, escorted by a great number of women, left the farm-house with her ap.r.o.n over her face, moaning, staggering, heedless of those who pulled her away with them, each one vying with the other as to who should take her home.
Pepeta began to arrange the funeral ceremony. She placed in the centre of the entrance the little white table on which the family ate, and covered it with a sheet, fastening the ends with pins. On it they placed a quilt which was starched and lace-trimmed, and there they placed the little coffin brought from Valencia, a jewel of a coffin which the neighbours admired; a white casket trimmed with gold braid, padded inside like a baby"s cradle.
Pepeta took out of a bundle the last finery of the dead child; the shroud of gauze woven of silver thread, the sandals, the garland of flowers, all white, whose purity was symbolic of that of the poor little "Bishop."
Slowly, with maternal care, Pepeta shrouded the corpse. She pressed the cold little body against her breast, introduced into the shroud, with the greatest care, the rigid little arms, as though they were bits of gla.s.s which might be broken at the least shock, and kissed the icy feet before putting them into the sandals.
In her arms, like a white dove stiff with cold, she carried Pascualet to the casket; to that altar raised in the middle of the farm-house before which the whole _huerta_, drawn by curiosity, would defile.
Nor was this all: the best was still lacking, the garland, a bonnet of white flowers with festoons which hung over the ears; a barbaric adornment like those worn by savages at the opera. Pepeta"s pious hand, engaged in a terrible struggle with death, stained the pale cheeks a rosy colour; the mouth, blackened by death, she toned up with a layer of bright scarlet, but her efforts to open the weak eyelids wide were vain; they kept falling, covering the dull filmed eyes, eyes without l.u.s.tre, which had the grey sadness of death.
Poor Pascualet ... unhappy little Bishop! With his grotesque garland and his painted face, he was turned into a ridiculous scarecrow. He had inspired more sorrowful tenderness when his pale little face had been livid in death on his mother"s pillow, adorned only with his own blond hair.
But all this did not prevent the good women of the _huerta_ from admiring Pepeta"s work enthusiastically. Look at him, ... why, he seemed to be asleep! So beautiful, so pinkly flushed!... never had such a little Abbot been seen before.
And they filled the hollows of his casket with flowers; flowers on the white vestment, scattered on the table, piled up in cl.u.s.ters at the ends; the whole plain"s luxuriance embraced the child"s body, which it had so often seen running along its paths like a bird; enveloped it with a wave of colour and perfume.
The two small brothers gazed on Pascualet astonished, piously, as on a superior being who might take flight at any time; the dog prowled around the catafalque stretching out his muzzle to lick the cold, waxen, little hands, and burst out into an almost human lamentation, a moan of despair which made the women nervous and impelled them to chase the poor beast away with kicks.
At noon, Teresa, escaping almost by main force from the captivity in which her neighbours kept her, returned home. Her mother-love filled her with a feeling of deep satisfaction when she beheld the little fellow"s finery; she kissed his painted mouth and redoubled her lamentations.
It was dinner-time. Batistet and the little ones, whose grief did not succeed in killing their appet.i.tes, devoured a broken crust, hidden in the corners. Teresa and her daughter had no thought of food. The father, still seated in his rush-chair, smoked cigar after cigar, impa.s.sive as an Oriental, turning his back on his dwelling as if he feared to see the white catafalque which served as an altar for his son"s body.
In the afternoon, the visitors were more numerous. The women arrived, decked out in holiday attire, and wearing their mantillas for the funeral; the girls disputed energetically as to who should be one of the four to carry the poor little Bishop to the cemetery.
Walking slowly by the edge of the road and avoiding the dust as though it were a deadly danger, some distinguished visitors arrived: Don Joaquin and Dona Josefa, the schoolmaster and the "lady." That afternoon, because of the unhappy event (as he declared), there was no school, as was very evident, from the crowd of bold and sticky boys who slipped into the farm-house, and tired of contemplating the corpse of their erstwhile companion as they picked at their noses, came out to run around on the nearby road or to jump over the ca.n.a.ls.
Dona Josefa, in a threadbare woollen dress and a large yellow mantilla, entered the farm-house silently, and after a few pompous phrases caught from her husband, seated her robust self in a large rope-chair and remained as mute as if asleep, in contemplation of the coffin. The good woman, accustomed to hearing and admiring her husband, could not carry on a conversation by herself.
The schoolmaster, who was showing off his short green jacket which he wore on days of ceremony, and his necktie of gigantic proportions, sat down outside by the father"s side. His big farmer"s hands were encased in black gloves which had grown grey in the course of years, till now they were the colour of a fly"s wing; he moved them constantly, desirous of drawing attention to the garments he wore on occasions of great solemnity.
For Batiste"s benefit, he brought out the most flowery and high-sounding phrases of his repertory. The latter was his best customer; not a single Sat.u.r.day had he failed to give his sons the two coppers for the school.
"It"s life, Mr. Bautista; resignation. We never know G.o.d"s plans. Often he turns evil into good for his creatures."
And interrupting his string of commonplaces, uttered pompously as though he were in school, he lowered his voice and added, blinking his eyes maliciously:
"Did you notice, Mr. Batiste, all these people? Yesterday they were cursing you and your family; and G.o.d knows how many times I have censured them for this wickedness; today they enter your house as though they were entering their own, and overwhelm you with manifestations of affection. Misfortune makes them forget, brings them close to you."
And after a pause, during which he stood with lowered head, he added with conviction, striking his breast:
"Believe me, for I know them well; at bottom they are very good people.
Very stupid, certainly. Capable of the most barbarous actions, but with hearts which are moved by misfortune and which make them draw in their claws.... Poor people! Whose fault is it that they were born stupid and that no one tries to help them to overcome it?"
He was silent for some time, and then he added with the fervour of a merchant praising his article:
"What is necessary here is education, much education. Temples of wisdom to spread the light of knowledge over this plain; torches which ...
which.... In short, if more youngsters came to my temple, I mean to my school, and if the fathers, instead of getting drunk paid punctually like you, Mr. Bautista, things would be different. And I say nothing more, for I don"t like to offend."
There was danger of this, for many of the fathers who sent him pupils unballasted by the two pennies were near.
Other farmers, those who had shown the family the most hostility, did not dare to approach the house, and remained grouped together on the road.
Among them was Pimento, who had just arrived from the tavern with five musicians, his conscience easy after remaining a few hours near Copa"s counter.
More and more people poured into the farm-house. There was no free s.p.a.ce left in it, and the women and children sat on the brick-benches beneath the vine-arbour or on the slopes, waiting for the hour set for the funeral.
Within were heard lamentations, counsels energetically uttered, the noise of a struggle. It was Pepeta, trying to separate Teresa from her son"s body. Come!... she must be reasonable; the "Bishop" could not stay there for ever, it was getting late, and it was better to drink the bitter cup down and get it over with.
And she struggled with the mother to make her leave the coffin and enter the bedroom, so as not to be present at the terrible moment of departure, when the "Bishop" would rise and take flight on the white wings of his shroud never to return.
"My son! his mother"s darling!" moaned poor Teresa.
She would see him no more; one kiss, another; and the head, more and more marblelike and livid despite the paint, moved from one side of the pillow to the other, making the diadem of flowers shake in the anxious hands of the mother and sister who disputed the last kiss.
At the end of the village the vicar would be found with the sacristan and the acolytes: they must not be kept waiting. Pepeta was growing impatient. Inside! Inside! And aided by other women, Teresa and her daughter were installed almost by main force in the bedroom, and walked up and down with dishevelled hair and eyes, red with weeping, their b.r.e.a.s.t.s heaving with a protest of sorrow which expressed itself not with moans but with howls.
Four girls with hoop-skirts, their silk mantillas falling over their eyes, and who had a modest and nun-like expression, seized the legs of the little table, raising all the white catafalque. Like the salvos saluting the flag as it is raised, there resounded a strange, prolonged, terrifying moan, which made chills run down the backs of many. It was the dog taking leave of the poor "Bishop," uttering an interminable lamentation, tears in his eyes and paws outstretched as if he wished himself to follow his very cry.
Outside, Don Joaquin was clapping his hands to command attention. Come now ... let the whole school form! The people on the road had approached the farm-house. Pimento captained the musicians; the latter prepared their instruments to salute the "Bishop" as soon as the coffin should pa.s.s the threshold, and amid the disorder and shouts with which the procession formed, the clarinet trilled, the cornet played, and the trombone blew like a fat, asthmatic old man.
The youngsters started out, raising high great bunches of sweet basil.
Don Joaquin knew how to do things properly. Afterward, breaking through the crowd, appeared the four damsels holding the light, white altar on which the poor "Bishop," lying in his coffin, moved his head with a slight movement from side to side as though he were taking leave of the farm-house.
The musicians burst forth into a playful, merry waltz, taking up their position behind the bier, and behind them, all the curious people ran along the little road to the farm in compact groups.
The farm-house remained mute and dark, with that melancholy atmosphere of places over which misfortune has pa.s.sed.
Batiste, alone under the vine-arbour, still in his att.i.tude of an impressive Arab, bit his cigar and followed the course of the procession which began to wind along the highway, the coffin and its catafalque looking like an enormous white dove among the black robes and green branches which marked the cortege.
Auspiciously did the poor "Bishop" set out upon his way to the heaven of the innocents. The plain, stretching out voluptuously under the kiss of the springtime sun, enveloped the dead child with its fragrance, accompanied him to the tomb, and covered him with an imperceptible shroud of perfumes. The old trees, which had germinated, filled with the sap of new life, seemed to greet the little corpse as they moved in the breeze, their branches heavy-laden with flowers. Never had Death pa.s.sed over the earth so beautiful a mask.
Dishevelled and screaming like madwomen, waving their arms furiously, the two unhappy women appeared in the door of the farm-house, their voices prolonged like an interminable moan in the quiet atmosphere of the plain, pervaded with soft light.
"My son!... My soul!..." moaned poor Teresa and her daughter.
Nnnnn! nnnnn! howled the dog, stretching out his muzzle in a long groan, which set the nerves on edge and seemed to send a funereal shiver over all the plain.
"Good-bye, Pascualet!... Good-bye!" cried the little ones, swallowing their tears.
And from afar, among the foliage, borne over the green waves of the fields, replied the echoes of the valley, accompanying the poor "Bishop"
to eternity, as he swayed back and forth in his white barge trimmed with gold. The complicated scales of the cornet, with its diabolic capers, seemed like a happy outburst of laughter from Death, who with the child in her arms, departed amid the sunset resplendencies of the plain.
At evening-fall, the procession returned home.
The little ones, sleepy from the excitement of the preceding night, when Death had visited them, slept in their chairs. Teresa and her daughter, overcome by weeping, their energy exhausted after so many sleepless nights, were prostrated. They fell on the bed which still showed signs of the poor child"s body, while Batistet snored in the stable near the sick horse.
The father, still silent and impa.s.sive, received visitors, shook hands, and gave thanks with movements of the head to the offers and consolatory expressions.