“That man has no gratitude in his composition,” remarked the youthful agent of one of the famous Gannal’s rivals; “he will not embalm his friend.”
The words were spoken under the archway, and addressed to La Cibot, who had just submitted her beloved to the process.
“What would you have, sir!” she said. “He is the heir, the universal legatee. As soon as they get what they want, the dead are nothing to them.”
An hour later, Schmucke saw Mme. Sauvage come into the room, followed by another man in a suit of black, a workman, to all appearance.
“Cantinet has been so obliging as to send this gentleman, sir,” she said; “he is coffin-maker to the parish.”
The coffin-maker made his bow with a sympathetic and compassionate air, but none the less he had a business-like look, and seemed to know that he was indispensable. He turned an expert’s eye upon the dead.
“How does the gentleman wish ‘it’ to be made? Deal, plain oak, or oak lead-lined? Oak with a lead lining is the best style. The body is a stock size,”—he felt for the feet, and proceeded to take the measure—“one metre seventy!” he added. “You will be thinking of ordering the funeral service at the church, sir, no doubt?”
Schmucke looked at him as a dangerous madman might look before striking a blow. La Sauvage put in a word.
“You ought to find somebody to look after all these things,” she said.
“Yes——” the victim murmured at length.