All the morning Janie had been escorting a procession of street Arabs up and down the stairs to view the remains. One of them - a little girl, who had had her face washed and had made a species of toilet for the occasion - refused to be dragged away. She stayed seated as if at an entertainment, fascinated alternately by the long, still figure of Mamzelle Aglaé, the mumbling lips of Purgatory Mary, and the silver candlesticks.
"Will ye get down on yer knees, man, and say a prayer for the dead!" commanded the woman.
But Chicot only shook his head, and refused to obey. He approached the bed, and laid a little black paw for a moment on the stiffened body of Mamzelle Aglaé. There was nothing for him to do here. He picked up his old ragged hat and his bag and went away.
"The black h'athen!" t
