hain with a coin
attached ornamented his person. A typical official, stamped with the
official expression of decorous gloom, an ebony wand in his hand by
way of insignia of office, he stood waiting with a three-cornered hat
adorned with the tricolor cockade under his arm.

"I am the master of the ceremonies," this person remarked in a subdued
voice.

Accustomed daily to superintend funerals, to move among families plunged
in one and the same kind of tribulation, real or feigned, this man, like
the rest of his fraternity, spoke in hushed and soothing tones; he was
decorous, polished, and formal, like an allegorical stone figure of
Death.

Schmucke quivered through every nerve as if he were confronting his
executioner.

"Is this gentleman the son, brother, or father of the deceased?"
inquired the official.

"I am all dat and more pesides--I am his friend," said Schmucke through
a torrent of weeping.

"Are you his heir?"

"Heir?..." repeated Schmucke. "Noding matters to me more in dis vorld,"
returning to his attitude of hopeless sorrow.

"Where are the relatives, the friends?" asked the master of the
ceremonies.

"All here!" exclaimed the German, indicating the pictures and rarities.
"Not von of dem haf efer gifn bain to mein boor Bons.... Here ees
everydings dot he lofed, after me."

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 mas