“I am all in plack insite!” poor Schmucke replied in heartrending tones; “so plack it is dot I feel death in me.... Gott in hefn is going to haf pity upon me; He vill send me to mein friend in der grafe, und I dank Him for it--” He clasped his hands. “I have told our management before now that we ought to have a wardrobe department and lend the proper mourning costumes on hire,” said the master of the ceremonies, addressing Villemot; “it is a want that is more and more felt every day, and we have even now introduced improvements. But as this gentleman is chief mourner, he ought to wear a cloak, and this one that I have brought with me will cover him from head to foot; no one need know that he is not in proper mourning costume.--Will you be so kind as to rise?” Schmucke rose, but he tottered on his feet. “Support him,” said the master of the ceremonies, turning to Villemot; “you are his legal representative.” Villemot held Schmucke’s arm while the master of the ceremonies invested Schmucke with the ample, dismal-looking garment worn by heirs-at-law in the procession to and from the house and the church. He tied the black silken cords under the chin, and Schmucke as heir was in “full dress.” “And now comes a great difficulty,” continued the master of the ceremonies; “we want four bearers for the pall.... If nobody comes to the funeral, who is to fill the corners? It is half-past ten already,” he added, looking at his watch; “they are waiting for us at the church.” “Oh! here comes Fraisier!” Villemot exclaimed, very imprudently; but there was no one to hear the tacit confession of complicity. “Who is this gentleman?” inquired the master of the ceremonies. “Oh! he comes on behalf of the family.” “Whose family?” “The disinherited family. He is M. Camusot de Marville’s representative.” “Good,” said the master of the ceremonies, with a satisfied air. “We shall have two pall-bearers at any rate--you and he.” And, happy to find two of the places filled up, he took out some wonderful white buckskin gloves, and politely presented Fraisier and Villemot with a pair apiece. “If you gentlemen will be so good as to act as pall-bearers--” said he. Fraisier, in black from head to foot, pretentiously dressed, with his white tie and official air, was a sight to shudder at; he embodied a hundred briefs. “Willingly, sir,” said he. “If only two more persons will come, the four corners will be filled up,” said the master of the ceremonies. At that very moment the indefatigable representative of the firm of Sonet came up, and, closely following him, the man who remembered Pons and thought of paying him a last tribute of respect. This was a supernumerary at the theatre, the man who put out the scores on the music-stands for the orchestra. Pons had been wont to give him a five-franc piece once a month, knowing that he had a wife and family. “Oh, Dobinard (Topinard)!” Schmucke cried out at the sight of him, “_you_ love Bons!”