DESTINY had willed that Loisillon, fortunate always, should be fortunate
in dying at the right moment. A week later, when houses were closed,
society broken up, the Chamber and the Institute not sitting, his
funeral train would have been composed of Academicians attentive to
their tallies, followed only by deputies from the numerous societies of
which he was Secretary or President. But business-like to the last and
after, he went off to the moment, just before the Grand Prix, choosing
a week entirely blank, when, as there was no crime, or duel, or
interesting lawsuit, or political event, the sensational obsequies of
the Permanent Secretary would be the only pastime of the town.
The funeral mass was to be at twelve o’clock, and long before that hour
an immense crowd was gathering round St. Germain des Prés. The traffic
was stopped, and no carriages but those of persons invited were allowed
to pass within the rails, strictly kept by a line of policemen posted
at intervals. Who Loisillon was, what he had done in his seventy years’
sojourn among mankind, what was the meaning of the capital letter
embroidered in silver on the funeral drapery, was known to but few in
the crowd. The one thing which struck them was the arrangement of the
protecting line, and the large space left to the dead, distance, room,
and emptiness being the constant symbols of respect and grandeur. It
had been understood that there would be a chance of seeing actresses and
persons of notoriety, and the cockneys at a distance were putting names
to the faces they recognised among the groups conversing in front of the
church.
[Illustration: There, under the black-draped porch 164]
There, under the black-draped porch, was the place for hearing the true
funeral oration on Loisillon, quite other than that which was to be
delivered presently at Mont Parnasse, and the true article on the man
and his work, very different from the notices ready for to-morrow’s
newspapers. His work was a ‘Journey in Val d’Andorre,’ and two reports
published at the National Press, relating to the time when he was
Superintendent at the Beaux-Arts. The man was a sort of shrewd attorney,
creeping and cringing, with a permanent bow and an apologetic attitude,
which seemed to ask your pardon for his decorations, your pardon for
his insignia, your pardon for his place in the Académie--where his
experience as a man of business was useful in fusing together a number
of different elements, with none of which he could well have been
classed--your pardon for the amazing success which had raised so high
such a worthless winged grub. It was remembered that at an official
dinner he had said of himself complacently, as he bustled round the
table with a napkin on his arm, ‘What an excellent servant I should have
made!’ And it might have been written on his tomb.
And while they moralised upon the nothingness of his life, his corpse,
the remains of nothing, was receiving the honours of death. Carriage
after carriage drew up at the church; liveries brown and liveries blue
came and disappeared; long-frocked footmen bowed to the pavement with
a pompous banging of doors and steps; the groups of journalists
respectfully made way, now for the Duchess Padovani, stately and proud,
now for Madame Ancelin, blooming in her crape, now for Madame Eviza,
whose Jewish eyes shone through her veil with blaze enough to attract
a constable--all the ladies of the Académie, assembled in full
congregation to practise their worship, not so much by a service to
the memory of Loisillon, as by contemplation of their living idols, the
‘deities’ made and fashioned by the cunning of their little hands, the
work upon which, as women, they had employed the superabundance of their
energy, artfulness, ambition, and pride. Some actresses had come too,
on the pretext that the deceased had been the president of some sort
of Actors’ Orphanage, but moved in reality by the frantic determination
‘not to be out of it,’ which belongs to their class. Their expressions
of woe were such that they might have been taken for near relations. A
carriage suddenly drawing up set down a distracted group of black veils,
whose sorrow was distressing to witness. The widow, at last? No, it is
Marguerite Oger, the great sensational actress, whose appearance excites
all round the square a prolonged stir and much pushing about. From
the porch a journalist ran forward to meet her, and taking her hands
besought her to bear up. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I ought to be calm; I will,’
Whereupon, drying her tears and forcing them back with her handkerchief,
she entered, or it should rather be said ‘went on,’ into the darkness of
the nave, with its background of glimmering tapers, fell down before
a desk on the ladies’ side in a prostration of self-abandonment, and
rising with a sorrowful air said to another actress at her side, ‘How
much did they take at the Vaudeville last night?’ ‘168L. 18s.,’ answered
her friend, with the same accent of grief.
Lost in the crowd at the edge of the square, Abel de Freydet heard the
people round him say, ‘It’s Marguerite. How well she did it!’ But being
a small man, he was trying in vain to make his way, when a hand was laid
upon his shoulder. ‘What, still in Paris? It must be a trial for your
poor sister,’ said Védrine, as he carried him along. Working his way
with his strong elbows through the stream of people who only came up to
his shoulder, and saying occasionally, ‘Excuse me, gentlemen--members of
the family,’ he brought to the front with him his country friend,
who, though delighted at the meeting, felt some embarrassment, as the
sculptor talked after his fashion, freely and audibly. ‘Bless me, what
luck Loisillon has! Why there weren’t more people for Béranger. This is
the sort of thing to keep a young man’s pecker up.’ Here Freydet, seeing
the hearse approaching, took off his hat. ‘Good gracious, what have you
done to your head? Turn round. Why you look like Louis Philippe!’ The
poet’s moustache was turned down, his hair brushed forward, and his
pleasant face showed its complexion of ruddy brown between whiskers
touched with grey. He drew up his short figure with a stiff dignity,
whereat Védrine laughing said, ‘Ah, I see. Made up for the grandees at
Chantilly? So you are still bent upon the Académie! Why, just look at
the exhibition yonder.’
In the sunlight and on the broad enclosure the official attendants
immediately behind the hearse made a shocking show. Chance might seem
to have chosen them for a wager among the most ridiculous seniors in the
Institute, and they looked especially-ugly in the uniform designed
by David, the coat embroidered with green, the hat, the Court
sword, beating against legs for which the designer was certainly not
responsible. First came Gazan; his hat was tilted awry by the bumps of
his skull, and the vegetable green of the coat threw into relief the
earthy colour and scaly texture of his elephantine visage. At his side
was the grim tall Laniboire with purple apoplectic veins and a crooked
mouth. His uniform was covered by an overcoat whose insufficient length
left visible the end of his sword and the tails of the frock, and gave
him an appearance certainly much less dignified than that of the marshal
with his black rod, who walked before. Those that followed, such as
Astier-Réhu and Desminières, were all embarrassed and uncomfortable,
all acknowledged by their apologetic and self-conscious bearing
the absurdity of their disguise, which, though it might pass in the
chastened light of their historic dome, seemed amid the real life of the
street not less laughable than a show of monkeys. ‘I declare one would
like to throw some nuts to see if they would go after them on all
fours,’ said Freydet’s undesirable companion. But Freydet did not catch
the impertinent remark. He slipped away, mixed with the procession, and
entered the church between two files of soldiers with arms reversed. He
was in his heart profoundly glad that Loisillon was dead. He had never
seen or known him; he could not love him for his work’s sake, as he had
done no work; and the only thing for which he could thank him was that
he had left his chair empty at such a convenient moment. But he was
impressed notwithstanding. The funeral pomp to which custom makes the
old Parisian indifferent, the long line of knapsacks, the muskets that
fell on the flags with a single blow (at the command of a boyish little
martinet, with a stock under-his chin, who was probably performing on
this occasion his first military duty), and, above all, the funeral
music and the muffled drums, filled him with respectful emotion: and
as always happened when he felt keenly, rimes began to rise. He had
actually got a good beginning, presenting a grand picture of the storm
and electric agitation and mental eclipse produced in the atmosphere
of a nation when one of its great men disappears. But he broke off his
thoughts to make room for Danjou, who, having arrived very late, pushed
on amid the looks and whispers of the ladies, gazing about him coldly
and haughtily and passing his hand over his head as he habitually does,
doubtless to ascertain the safety of his back hair.
‘He did not recognise me,’ thought Freydet, hurt by the crushing glance
with which the Academician relegated to the ranks the nobody who had
ventured to greet him; ‘it’s my whiskers, I suppose.’ The interruption
turned the thoughts of the candidate from his verses, and he began to
consider his plan of operations, his calls, his official announcement
to the Permanent Secretary. But what was he thinking of? The Permanent
Secretary was dead! Would Astier-Réhu be appointed before the vacation?
And when would the election be? He proceeded to consider all the
‘details, down to his coat. Should he go to Astier’s tailor now? And did
the tailor supply also the hat and sword?
_Pie Jesu, Domine_, sang a voice behind the altar, the swelling notes of
an opera singer, asking repose for Loisillon, whom it might be thought
the Divine Mercy had destined to special torment, for all through the
church, loud and soft, in every variety of voice, solo and in unison,
came the supplication for ‘repose, repose.’ Ah, let him sleep quietly
after his many years of turmoil and intrigue! The solemn stirring chant
was answered in the nave by women’s sobbing, above which rose the tragic
convulsive gasp of Marguerite Oger, the gasp so impressive in the
fourth act of ‘Musidora.’ All this lamentation touched the kind-hearted
candidate and linked itself in his feelings to other lamentations and
other sorrows. He thought of relatives who had died, and of his sister
who had been a mother to him, and who was now given up by all the
doctors, and knew it, and spoke of it in every letter. Ah! would she
live even to see the day of his success? Tears blinded him, and he was
obliged to wipe his eyes.
‘Don’t come it too strong, it won’t seem genuine,’ said the sneering
voice of fat Lavaux, grinning close at his ear. He turned round
angrily; but here the young officer gave at stentorian pitch the command
‘Carry--arms!’ and the bayonets rattled on the muskets while the muffled
tones of the organ rolled out the ‘Dead March.’ The procession began
to form for leaving the church, headed as before by Gazan, Laniboire,
Desminières, and Freydet’s old master, Astier-Réhu. They all looked
superb now, the parrot green of their laced coats being subdued by
the dim religious light of the lofty building as they walked down the
central aisle, two and two, slowly, as if loth to reach the great square
of daylight seen through the open doors. Behind came the whole Society,
headed by its senior member, the wonderful old Jean Réhu, looking taller
than ever in a long coat, and holding up the little brown head, carved,
one might fancy, out of a cocoa-nut, with an air of contemptuous
indifference telling that ‘this was a thing he had seen’ any number of
times before. Indeed in the course of the sixty years during which he
had been in receipt of the tallies of the Académie, he must have heard
many such funeral chants, and sprinkled much holy water on illustrious
biers.
But if Jean Réhu was a ‘deity,’ whose miraculous immortality justified
the name, it could only be applied in mockery to the band of patriarchs
who followed him. Decrepit, bent double, gnarled as old apple trees,
with feet of lead, limp legs, and blinking owlish eyes, they stumbled
along, either supported on an arm or feeling their way with outstretched
hands; and their names whispered by the crowd recalled works long
dead and forgotten. Beside such ghosts as these, ‘on furlough from the
cemetery,’ as was remarked by a smart young soldier in the guard of
honour, the rest of the Academicians seemed young. They posed and
strutted before the delighted eyes of the ladies, whose bright gleams
reached them through the black veils, the ranks of the crowd, and the
cloaks and knapsacks of the bewildered soldiers. On this occasion again
Freydet, bowing to two or three ‘future colleagues,’ encountered cold or
contemptuous smiles, like those which a man sees when he dreams that his
dearest friends have forgotten him. But he had not time to be depressed,
being caught and turned about by the double stream which moved up the
church and towards the door.
‘Well, my lord, you will have to be stirring now,’ was the advice of
friendly Picheral, whispered in the midst of the hubbub and the scraping
of chairs. It sent the candidate’s blood tingling through his veins. But
just as he passed before the bier Danjou muttered, without looking at
him, as he handed him the holy-water brush, ‘Whatever you do, be quiet,
and let things slide.’ His knees shook beneath him. Bestir yourself! Be
quiet! Which advice was he to take? Which was the best? Doubtless his
master, Astier, would tell him, and he tried to reach him outside the
church. It was no easy task in the confusion of the court, where they
were forming the procession, and lifting the coffin under its heap of
countless wreaths. Never was a scene more lively than this coming out
from the funeral into the brilliant daylight; everywhere people were
bowing and talking gossip quite unconnected with the ceremony, while the
bright expression on every face showed the reaction after a long hour’s
sitting still and listening to melancholy music. Plans were made,
meetings arranged; the hurrying stream of life, stopped for a brief
while, impatiently resumed its course, and poor Loisillon was left far
behind in the past to which he belonged.
‘At the Français to-night, don’t forget; it’s the last Tuesday,’
simpered Madame Ancelin, while Paul said to Lavaux, ‘Are you going to
see it through?’
‘No; I’m taking Madame Eviza home.’
‘Then come to Keyser’s at six. We shall want freshening after the
speeches.’
The mourning coaches were drawing up one after the other, while the
private carriages set off at a trot. People were leaning out of all the
windows in the square, and over towards the Boulevard Saint-Germain
men standing on the stationary tramcars showed tier after tier of heads
rising in dark relief against the blue sky. Freydet, dazzled by the sun,
tilted his hat over his eyes and looked at the crowd, which reached as
far as he could see. He felt proud, transferring to the Académie the
posthumous glory which certainly could not be ascribed to the author
of the ‘Journey in Val d’Andorre,’ though at the same time he was
distressed at noticing that his dear ‘future colleagues’ obviously kept
him at a distance, became meditative when he drew near, or turned away,
making little groups to keep out the intruder. And these were the very
men who only two days ago at Voisin’s had said to him, ‘When are
you going to join us?’ But the heaviest blow was the desertion of
Astier-Réhu.
‘What a calamity, sir!’ said Freydet, coming up to him and putting on
a doleful expression for the purpose of saying something sympathetic.
Astier-Réhu, standing by the hearse, made no answer, but went on turning
over the leaves of the oration he would shortly have to deliver. ‘What a
calamity!’ repeated Freydet.
‘My dear Freydet, you are indecent,’ said his master, roughly, in a loud
voice. And with one harsh snap of the jaw he betook himself again to his
reading.
Indecent! What did he mean? The poor man looked himself over, but could
find no explanation of the reproach. What was the matter? What had he
done?
For some minutes he was quite dazed. Vaguely he saw the hearse start
under its shaking pyramid of flowers, with green coats at the four
corners, more green coats behind, then all the Society, and immediately
following, but at a respectful distance, another group, in which he
found himself involved and carried along he knew not how. Young men, old
men, all terribly gloomy and depressed, all marked on the brow with the
same deep furrow, set there by one fixed idea, all expressing with their
eyes the same hatred and distrust of their neighbours. When he had
got over his discomfiture, and was able to identify these persons,
he recognised the faded, hopeless face of old Moser, the candidate
everlasting; the honest expression of Dalzon, the author of ‘that
book,’ who had failed at the last election; and de Salêles!--and
Guérineau!--Why, they were the ‘fish in tow’! They were the men about
whom the Académie ‘does not trouble itself,’ whom it leaves, hanging
on to a strong hook, to be drawn along in the wake of the ship of fame.
There they all were--all of them, poor drowned fish!--some dead and
under the water; others still struggling, turning up sad and greedy eyes
full of an eager craving, never to be appeased. And while he vowed to
himself to avoid a similar fate, Abel de Freydet followed the bait and
dragged at the line, too firmly struck already to get himself free.
Far away, along the line cleared for the procession, muffled drums
alternated with the blast of trumpets, bringing crowds of bystanders on
the pavement and heads to every window. Then the music again took up the
long-drawn strains of the Hero’s March. In the presence of so impressive
a tribute as this national funeral, this proud protest on the part
of humanity, crushed and overcome by death but decking defeat in
magnificence, it was hard to realise that all this pomp was for
Loisillon, Permanent Secretary of the Académie Française--for nothing,
servant to nothing.