The moment had arrived.  The relations went to fetch the fire.  As it was barely alight, some oil was poured on it, and suddenly a flame arose lighting up the great wall of rock from summit to base.  An Indian who was leaning over the brazier rose upright, his two hands in the air, his elbows bent, and all at once we saw arising, all black on the immense white cliff, a colossal shadow, the shadow of Buddha in his hieratic posture.  And the little pointed toque that the man wore on his head even looked like the head-dress of the god.

The effect was so striking and unexpected that I felt my heart beat as though some supernatural apparition had risen up before me.

That was just what it was—­the ancient and sacred image, come from the heart of the East to the ends of Europe, and watching over its son whom they were going to cremate there.

It vanished.  They brought fire.  The shavings on top of the pyre were lighted and then the wood caught fire and a brilliant light illumined the cliff, the shingle and the foam of the waves as they broke on the beach.

It grew brighter from second to second, lighting up on the sea in the distance the dancing crest of the waves.

The breeze from the ocean blew in gusts, increasing the heat of the flame which flattened down, twisted, then shot up again, throwing out millions of sparks.  They mounted with wild rapidity along the cliff and were lost in the sky, mingling with the stars, increasing their number.  Some sea birds who had awakened uttered their plaintive cry, and, describing long curves, flew, with their white wings extended, through the gleam from the funeral pyre and then disappeared in the night.

Before long the pile of wood was nothing but a mass of flame, not red but yellow, a blinding yellow, a furnace lashed by the wind.  And, suddenly, beneath a stronger gust, it tottered, partially crumbling as it leaned towards the sea, and the corpse came to view, full length, blackened on his couch of flame and burning with long blue flames: 

The pile of wood having crumbled further on the right the corpse turned over as a man does in bed.  They immediately covered him with fresh wood and the fire started up again more furiously than ever.

The East Indians, seated in a semi-circle on the shingle, looked out with sad, serious faces.  And the rest of us, as it was very cold, had drawn nearer to the fire until the smoke and sparks came in our faces.  There was no odor save that of burning pine and petroleum.

Hours passed; day began to break.  Toward five o’clock in the morning nothing remained but a heap of ashes.  The relations gathered them up, cast some of them to the winds, some in the sea, and kept some in a brass vase that they had brought from India.  They then retired to their home to give utterance to lamentations.

These young princes and their servants, by the employment of the most inadequate appliances succeeded in carrying out the cremation of their relation in the most perfect manner, with singular skill and remarkable dignity.  Everything was done according to ritual, according to the rigid ordinances of their religion.  Their dead one rests in peace.