The mother looked at Isay's face. One eye, wide open, had its dim
glance fixed upon his hat lying between his lazily outstretched legs.
His mouth was half open in astonishment, his little shriveled body,
with its pointed head and bony face, seemed to be resting. The
mother crossed herself and heaved a sigh. He had been repulsive
to her when alive, but now she felt a mild pity for him.
"No blood!" some one remarked in an undertone. "He was evidently
knocked down with a fist blow."
A stout woman, tugging at the gendarme's hand, asked:
"Maybe he is still alive?"
"Go away!" the gendarme shouted not very loudly, withdrawing his hand.
"The doctor was here and said it was all over," somebody said to
the woman.
A sarcastic, malicious voice cried aloud:
"They've choked up a denouncer's mouth. Serves him right!"
The gendarme pushed aside the women, who were crowded close about
him, and asked in a threatening tone:
"Who was that? Who made that remark?"
The people scattered before him as he thrust them aside. A number
took quickly to their heels, and some one in the crowd broke into
a mocking laugh.
The mother went home.
"No one is sorry," she thought.
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