Schmucke had taken his seat again, and looked as vacant as before; he dried his eyes mechanically.  Villemot came up at that moment; he had ordered the funeral, and the master of the ceremonies, recognizing him, made an appeal to the newcomer.

“Well, sir, it is time to start.  The hearse is here; but I have not often seen such a funeral as this.  Where are the relatives and friends?”

“We have been pressed for time,” replied Villemot.  “This gentleman was in such deep grief that he could think of nothing.  And there is only one relative.”

The master of the ceremonies looked compassionately at Schmucke; this expert in sorrow knew real grief when he saw it.  He went across to him.

“Come, take heart, my dear sir.  Think of paying honor to your friend’s memory.”

“We forgot to send out cards; but I took care to send a special message to M. le Presidente de Marville, the one relative that I mentioned to you.—­There are no friends.—­M.  Pons was conductor of an orchestra at a theatre, but I do not think that any one will come.  —­This gentleman is the universal legatee, I believe.”

“Then he ought to be chief mourner,” said the master of the ceremonies.—­“Have you a black coat?” he continued, noticing Schmucke’s costume.

“I am all in plack insite!” poor Schmucke replied in heartrending tones; “so plack it is dot I feel death in me. . . .  Gott in hefn is going to haf pity upon me; He vill send me to mein friend in der grafe, und I dank Him for it—­”

He clasped his hands.

“I have told our management before now that we ought to have a wardrobe department and lend the proper mourning costumes on hire,” said the master of the ceremonies, addressing Villemot; “it is a want that is more and more felt every day, and we have even now introduced improvements.  But as this gentleman is chief mourner, he ought to wear a cloak, and this one that I have brought with me will cover him from head to foot; no one need know that he is not in proper mourning costume.—­Will you be so kind as to rise?”

Schmucke rose, but he tottered on his feet.

“Support him,” said the master of the ceremonies, turning to Villemot; “you are his legal representative.”

Villemot held Schmucke’s arm while the master of the ceremonies invested Schmucke with the ample, dismal-looking garment worn by heirs-at-law in the procession to and from the house and the church.  He tied the black silken cords under the chin, and Schmucke as heir was in “full dress.”

“And now comes a great difficulty,” continued the master of the ceremonies; “we want four bearers for the pall. . . .  If nobody comes to the funeral, who is to fill the corners?  It is half-past ten already,” he added, looking at his watch; “they are waiting for us at the church.”

“Oh! here comes Fraisier!” Villemot exclaimed, very imprudently; but there was no one to hear the tacit confession of complicity.