From the other
side of the street a group of policemen with revolvers at their
belts looked on. The impudence of the spies, the mocking smiles of
the police ready to show their power, were strong provocatives to
the crowd. Some joked to cover their excitement; others looked down
on the ground sullenly, trying not to notice the affronts; still
others, unable to restrain their wrath, laughed in sarcasm at the
government, which feared people armed with nothing but words. The
pale blue sky of autumn gleamed upon the round, gray paving stones
of the streets, strewn with yellow leaves, which the wind kept
whirling about under the people's feet.
The mother stood in the crowd. She looked around at the familiar
faces and thought with sadness: "There aren't many of you, not many."
The gate opened, and the coffin, decorated with wreaths tied with
red ribbons, was carried out. The people, as if inspired with one
will, silently raised their hats. A tall officer of police with a
thick black mustache on a red face unceremoniously jostled his way
through the crowd, followed by the soldiers, whose heavy boots
trampled loudly on the stones. They made a cordon around the
coffin, and the officer said in a hoarse, commanding voice:
"Remove the ribbons, please!"
The men and women pressed closely about him.
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