There were many women in the crowd, even more children, and storekeepers, tavern waiters, policemen, and the gendarme Petlin, a tall old man with a woolly, silvery beard, and decorations on his breast.
Isay half reclined on the ground, his back resting against a burned joist, his bare head hanging over his right shoulder, his right hand in his trousers' pocket, and the fingers of his left hand clutching the soil.
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.