CHAPTER III
THE GRAVE ABROAD
I cannot refrain from telling you about Sylvestre's funeral, which I
conducted myself in Singapore. We had thrown enough other dead into
the Sea of China, during the early days of the home voyage; and as the
Malay land was quite near, we decided to keep his remains a few hours
longer; to bury him fittingly.
It was very early in the morning, on account of the terrible sun. In
the boat that carried him ashore, his corpse was shrouded in the
national flag. The city was in sleep as we landed. A wagonette, sent
by the French Consul, was waiting on the quay; we laid Sylvestre upon
it, with a wooden cross made on board--the paint still wet upon it,
for the carpenter had to hurry over it, and the white letters of his
name ran into the black ground.
We crossed that Babel in the rising sun. And then it was such an
emotion to find the serene calm of an European place of worship in the
midst of the distasteful turmoil of the Chinese country. Under the
high white arch, where I stood alone with my sailors, the "/Dies
Iroe/," chanted by a missionary priest, sounded like a soft magical
incantation. Through the open doors we could see sights that resembled
enchanted gardens, exquisite verdure and immense palm-trees, the wind
shook the large flowering shrubs and their perfumed crimson petals
fell like rain, almost to the church itself. Thence we marched to the
ceremony, very far off. Our little procession of sailors was very
unpretentious, but the coffin remained conspicuously wrapped in the
flag of France. We had to traverse the Chinese quarter, through
seething crowds of yellow men; and then the Malay and Indian suburbs,
where all types of Asiatic faces looked upon us with astonishment.
Then came the open country already heated; through shady groves where
exquisite butterflies, on velvety blue wings, flitted in masses. On
either side, waved tall luxuriant palms, and quantities of flowers in
splendid profusion. At last we came to the cemetery, with mandarins'
tombs and many-coloured inscriptions, adorned with paintings of
dragons and other monsters; amid astounding foliage and plants growing
everywhere. The spot where we laid him down to rest resembled a nook
in the gardens of Indra. Into the earth we drove the little wooden
cross, lettered:
SYLVESTRE MOAN,
AGED 19.
And we left him, forced to go because of the hot rising sun; we turned
back once more to look at him under those marvellous trees and huge
nodding flowers.
