“Mourning!”
“It is the proper thing.”
“Der bropper ding!... Confound all dis stupid nonsense!” cried poor Schmucke, driven to the last degree of exasperation which a childlike soul can reach under stress of sorrow.
“Why, the man is a monster of ingratitude!” said La Sauvage, turning to a personage who just then appeared. At the sight of this functionary Schmucke shuddered. The newcomer wore a splendid suit of black, black knee-breeches, black silk stockings, a pair of white cuffs, an extremely correct white muslin tie, and white gloves. A silver chain 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?”