A foul stench scattered around him the moment he crossed the hospital's threshold—he recognized it instantly. The smell of corpses.
He stopped the nurse passing by, who held a damp cloth and a bucket of water, exhaustion drawn clearly on her face.
"Excuse me, Miss. I'm Mr. Humbert. I've come to pick up the boy, Artaud. His mother passed away this week."
"Oh, that little boy! Follow me."
With brisk steps—surprisingly graceful for a face so weary—she made her way quickly down the corridor, and he followed at her heels.
Upon entering the room, he found a boy who looked to be around twelve years old, but clearly not in his best state. A frail body, greasy blond hair—it was obvious he hadn't bathed in days. He sat quietly on a creaky wooden chair that emitted a disturbing groan with every minor shift. Beside his body lay the corpse of his mother, cold and lifeless, perhaps waiting to be buried for the peace she never found in life.
Another woman entered—the one who seemed to be in charge. Her features were stern and commanding, lips curled downward. She pulled a paper from her pocket and read aloud in a firm, resonant voice:
"Mr. Humbert, the will of the deceased 'Camille du Brès' states that custody of her son is to be transferred to you. And, being a funeral director, she insisted that she be buried by your hand."
She looked at him with indifferent eyes and extended the paper for him to take.
"And you must hurry. The worms have already gathered."
The man approached the small figure hunched near the window. The boy climbed down from the chair and moved closer to his mother's body.
Humbert stopped before him and spoke in a rough voice, void of affection:
"You must be Artaud, right? Well then, I'm Mr. Humbert. I'll be taking care of you from now on. Now, help me move your mother to the cart."
The boy lifted his gaze slowly, face blank, still not fully grasping what was happening. After a few seconds of silence, he nodded, set aside the bag on his lap, and began obeying the man's instructions with his small hands. He lifted her body by the feet, while Humbert carried her from the back.
"Here, let's lay her here."
There was a small cart waiting outside the hospital door—Humbert had brought it from his wagon, which was still stuck in the mud a few meters away. Artaud remained silent the entire walk toward the cart.
"Help me redirect it."
Artaud examined the scene carefully, then circled around the cart for a few moments.
He knelt down, slid part of his body beneath the cart, and began clearing the pile of mud around the wheel. The older man was surprised by the boy's quick thinking despite what he had just endured. Artaud then carefully led the horse backward, pulling it toward a patch of relatively dry ground, allowing the cart to move once more.
The road was bleak and somber. The branches looked like thorns, and the air had turned a pale gray. As for the stench of the corpse—it was nothing new to a funeral director.
The boy, however, had become numb to it. He had sat beside his mother's body long enough that his nose no longer registered the smell. Perhaps his senses were no longer present at all.
"From now on, you'll be my apprentice. Do you have any profession in mind for the future?"
Artaud replied hesitantly, shyly:
"I was thinking… maybe carpentry..."
"Well... that won't be possible. You'll have to forget about that idea. You'll learn from me and follow me to every funeral from now on. As misfortune would have it, your first funeral will be your mother's. You're going to inherit my profession, Artaud."
"…Could we at least bury her somewhere beautiful? She loved flowers. Could we bury her in a place with flowers…?"
Humbert answered:
"Of course."