From the church door, where he was beset with a swarm of beggars (promptly dispersed by the beadle), to Pere-Lachaise, poor Schmucke went as criminals went in old times from the Palais de Justice to the Place de Greve.  It was his own funeral that he followed, clinging to Topinard’s hand, to the one living creature besides himself who felt a pang of real regret for Pons’ death.

As for Topinard, greatly touched by the honor of the request to act as pall-bearer, content to drive in a carriage, the possessor of a new pair of gloves,—­it began to dawn upon him that this was to be one of the great days of his life.  Schmucke was driven passively along the road, as some unlucky calf is driven in a butcher’s cart to the slaughter-house.  Fraisier and Villemot sat with their backs to the horses.  Now, as those know whose sad fortune it has been to accompany many of their friends to their last resting-place, all hypocrisy breaks down in the coach during the journey (often a very long one) from the church to the eastern cemetery, to that one of the burying-grounds of Paris in which all vanities, all kinds of display, are met, so rich is it in sumptuous monuments.  On these occasions those who feel least begin to talk soonest, and in the end the saddest listen, and their thoughts are diverted.

“M. le President had already started for the Court.”  Fraisier told Villemot, “and I did not think it necessary to tear him away from business; he would have come too late, in any case.  He is the next-of-kin; but as he has been disinherited, and M. Schmucke gets everything, I thought that if his legal representative were present it would be enough.”

Topinard lent an ear to this.

“Who was the queer customer that took the fourth corner?” continued Fraisier.

“He is an agent for a firm of monumental stone-masons.  He would like an order for a tomb, on which he proposes to put three sculptured marble figures—­Music, Painting, and Sculpture shedding tears over the deceased.”

“It is an idea,” said Fraisier; “the old gentleman certainly deserved that much; but the monument would cost seven or eight hundred francs.”

“Oh! quite that!”

“If M. Schmucke gives the order, it cannot affect the estate.  You might eat up a whole property with such expenses.”

“There would be a lawsuit, but you would gain it—­”

“Very well,” said Fraisier, “then it will be his affair.—­It would be a nice practical joke to play upon the monument-makers,” Fraisier added in Villemot’s ear; “for if the will is upset (and I can answer for that), or if there is no will at all, who would pay them?”

Villemot grinned like a monkey, and the pair began to talk confidentially, lowering their voices; but the man from the theatre, with his wits and senses sharpened in the world behind the scenes, could guess at the nature of their discourse; in spite of the rumbling of the carriage and other hindrances, he began to understand that these representatives of justice were scheming to plunge poor Schmucke into difficulties; and when at last he heard the ominous word “Clichy,” the honest and loyal servitor of the stage made up his mind to watch over Pons’ friend.