“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 master of the ceremonies.—“Have you a black coat?” he continued, noticing Schmucke’s costume.