In the Rue d’Driere, the undertaker and his head apprentice were
right merry. But why should they not be? People had to die, quoth the
undertaker, and when dead they must be buried. Burying was a trade, and
wherefore should not one--discreetly--be cheerful at one’s trade? In
undertaking there were many miles to trudge with coffins in a week,
and the fixed, sad, sympathetic look long custom had stereotyped was
wearisome to the face as a cast of plaster-of-paris. Moreover, the
undertaker was master of ceremonies at the house of bereavement as well.
He not only arranged the funeral, he sent out the invitations to the
“friends of deceased, who are requested to return to the house of the
mourners after the obsequies for refreshment.” All the preparations for
this feast were made by the undertaker--Master of Burials he chose to be
called.
Once, after a busy six months, in which a fever had carried off many a
Jersiais, the Master of Burials had given a picnic to his apprentices,
workmen, and their families. At this buoyant function he had raised his
glass and with playful plaintiveness proposed: “The day we celebrate!”
He was in a no less blithesome mood this day. The head apprentice was
reading aloud the accounts for the burials of the month, while the
master checked off the items, nodding approval, commenting, correcting
or condemning with strange expletives.
“Don’t gabble, gabble next one slowlee!” said the Master of Burials,
as the second account was laid aside, duly approved. “Eh ben, now let’s
hear the next--who is it?”
“That Josue Anquetil,” answered the apprentice. The Master of Burials
rubbed his hands together with a creepy sort of glee. “Ah, that was a
clever piece of work! Too little of a length and a width for the box,
but let us be thankful--it might have been too short, and it wasn’t.”
“No danger of that, pardingue!” broke in the apprentice. “The first it
belonged to was a foot longer than Josue--he.”
“But I made the most of Josue,” continued the Master. “The mouth was
crooked, but he was clean, clean--I shaved him just in time. And he had
good hair for combing to a peaceful look, and he was light to carry--O
my good! Go on, what has Josue the centenier to say for himself?”
With a drawling dull indifference, the lank, hatchet-faced servitor of
the master servitor of the grave read off the items:
The Relict of Josue Anquetil, Centenier, in account with
Etienne Mahye, Master of Burials.
Item: Livres. Sols. Farth. Paid to Gentlemen of Vingtaine, who carried
him to his grave.................. 4 4 0 Ditto to me, Etienne Mahye, for
proper gloves of silk and cotton................. 1 0 0 Ditto to me, E.
M., for laying of him out and all that appertains............... 0 7 0
Ditto to me, E. M., for coffin............ 4 0 0 Ditto to me, E. M., for
divers............ 0 4 0
The Master of Burials interrupted. “Bat’dlagoule, you’ve forgot blacking
for coffin!”
The apprentice made the correction without deigning reply, and then went
on
Livres. Sols. Farth.
Ditto to me, E. M., for black for blacking
coffin.................................... 0 3 0 Ditto to me, E. M.,
paid out for supper after obs’quies........................... 3 2 0
Ditto to me, E. M., paid out for wine (3 pots and 1 pt. at a shilling)
for ditto..................................... 2 5 6 Ditto to me, E. M.,
paid out for oil and candle.................................... 0 7
0 Ditto to me, E. M., given to the poor, as fitting station of
deceased............... 4 0 0
The apprentice stopped. “That’s all,” he said.
There was a furious leer on the face of the Master of Burials. So, after
all his care, apprentices would never learn to make mistakes on his
side. “O my grief, always on the side of the corpse, that can thank
nobody for naught!” was his snarling comment.
“What about those turnips from Denise Gareau, numskull?” he grunted, in
a voice between a sneer and a snort.
The apprentice was unmoved. He sniffed, rubbed his nose with a
forefinger, laboriously wrote for a moment, and then added:
Ditto to Madame Denise Gareau for turnips for supper after obs’quies
...................... 10 sols
“Saperlote, leave out the Madame, calf-lugs--, you!”
The apprentice did not move a finger. Obstinacy sat enthroned on him.
In a rage, the Master made a snatch at a metal flower-wreath to throw at
him. “Shan’t! She’s my aunt. I knows my duties to my aunt--me,” said the
apprentice stolidly.
The Master burst out in a laugh of scorn. “Gaderabotin, here’s family
pride for you! I’ll go stick dandelines in my old sow’s ear--respe d’la
compagnie.”
The apprentice was still calm. “If you want to flourish yourself, don’t
mind me,” said he, and picking up the next account, he began reading:
Mademoiselle Landresse, in the matter of the Burial of
the Sieur de Mauprat, to Etienne Mahye, &c. Item--
The first words read by the apprentice had stilled the breaking storm
of the Master’s anger. It dissolved in a fragrant dew of proud
reminiscence, profit, and scandal.
He himself had no open prejudices. He was an official of the public--or
so he counted himself--and he very shrewdly knew his duty in that walk
of life to which it had pleased Heaven to call him. The greater the
notoriety of the death, the more in evidence was the Master and all
his belongings. Death with honour was an advantage to him; death with
disaster a boon; death with scandal was a godsend. It brought tears
of gratitude to his eyes when the death and the scandal were in high
places. These were the only real tears he ever shed. His heart was in
his head, and the head thought solely of Etienne Mahye. Though he wore
an air of sorrow and sympathy in public, he had no more feeling than a
hangman. His sympathy seemed to say to the living, “I wonder how soon
you’ll come into my hands,” and to the dead, “What a pity you can only
die once--and second-hand coffins so hard to get!”
Item: paid to me, Etienne Mahye,
droned the voice of the apprentice,
for rosewood coffin--
“O my good,” interrupted the Master of Burials with a barren chuckle,
and rubbing his hands with glee, “O my good, that was a day in a
lifetime! I’ve done fine work in my time, but upon that day--not a cloud
above, no dust beneath, a flowing tide, and a calm sea. The Royal Court,
too, caught on a sudden marching in their robes, turns to and joins the
cortegee, and the little birds a-tweeting-tweeting, and two parsons at
the grave. Pardingue, the Lord was--with me that day, and--”
The apprentice laughed--a dry, mirthless laugh of disbelief and
ridicule. “Ba su, master, the Lord was watching you. There was two
silver bits inside that coffin, on Sieur’s eyes.”
“Bigre!” The Master was pale with rage. His lips drew back, disclosing
long dark teeth and sickly gums, in a grimace of fury. He reached out to
seize a hammer lying at his hand, but the apprentice said quickly:
“Sapri--that’s the cholera hammer!”
The Master of Burials dropped the hammer as though it were at white
heat, and eyed it with scared scrutiny. This hammer had been used in
nailing down the coffins of six cholera patients who had died in one
house at Rozel Bay a year before. The Master would not himself go near
the place, so this apprentice had gone, on a promise from the Royal
Court that he should have for himself--this he demanded as reward--free
lodging in two small upper rooms of the Cohue Royale, just under the
bell which said to the world, “Chicane--chicane! Chicane--chicane!”
This he asked, and this he got, and he alone of all Jersey went out
to bury three people who had died of cholera; and then to watch three
others die, to bury them scarce cold, and come back, with a leer of
satisfaction, to claim his price. At first people were inclined to make
a hero of him, but that only made him grin the more, and at last the
island reluctantly decided that he had done the work solely for fee and
reward.
The hammer used in nailing the coffins, he had carried through the town
like an emblem of terror and death, and henceforth he only, in the shop
of the Master, touched it.
“It won’t hurt you if you leave it alone,” said the apprentice grimly
to the Master of Burials. “But, if you go bothering, I’ll put it in your
bed, and it’ll do after to nail down your coffin.”
Then he went on reading with a malicious calmness, as though the matter
were the dullest trifle:
Item: one dozen pairs of gloves for mourners.
“Par made, that’s one way of putting it!” commented the apprentice, “for
what mourners was there but Ma’m’selle herself, and she quiet as a mice,
and not a teardrop, and all the island necks end to end for look at her,
and you, master, whispering to her: ‘The Lord is the Giver and Taker,’
and the Femme de Ballast t’other side, saying ‘My dee-ar, my dee-ar,
bear thee up, bear thee up--thee.’”
“And she looking so steady in front of her, as if never was shame about
her--and her there soon to be; and no ring of gold upon her hand, and
all the world staring!” broke in the Master, who, having edged away
from the cholera hammer, was launched upon a theme that stirred his very
soul. “All the world staring, and good reason,” he added.
“And she scarce winking, eh?” said the apprentice. “True that--her eyes
didn’t feel the cold,” said the Master of Burials with a leer, for to
his sight as to that of others, only as boldness had been Guida’s bitter
courage, the blank, despairing gaze, coming from eyes that turn their
agony inward.
The apprentice took up the account again, and prepared to read it. The
Master, however, had been roused to a genial theme. “Poor fallen child
of Nature!” said he. “For what is birth or what is looks of virtue like
a summer flower! It is to be brought down by hand of man.” He was warmed
to his text. Habit had long made him so much hypocrite, that he was
sentimentalist and hard materialist in one. “Some pend’loque has brought
her beauty to this pass, but she must suffer--and also his time will
come, the sulphur, the torment, the worm that dieth not--and no Abraham
for parched tongue--misery me! They that meet in sin here shall meet
hereafter in burning fiery furnace.”
The cackle of the apprentice rose above the whining voice. “Murder,
too--don’t forget the murder, master. The Connetable told the old Sieur
de Mauprat what people were blabbing, and in half-hour dead he is--he.”
“Et ben, the Sieur’s blood it is upon their heads,” continued the Master
of Burials; “it will rise up from the ground--”
The apprentice interrupted. “A good thing if the Sieur himself doesn’t
rise, for you’d get naught for coffin or obs’quies. It was you tells the
Connetable what folks babbled, and the Connetable tells the Sieur,
and the Sieur it kills him dead. So if he rised, he’d not pay you for
murdering him--no, bidemme! And ‘tis a gobbly mouthful--this,” he added,
holding up the bill.
The undertaker’s lips smacked softly, as though in truth he were waiting
for the mouthful. Rubbing his hands, and drawing his lean leg up till
it touched his nose, he looked over it with avid eyes, and said: “How
much--don’t read the items, but come to total debit--how much she pays
me?”
Ma’m’selle Landresse, debtor in all for one hundred and twenty livres,
eleven sols and two farthings.
“Shan’t you make it one hundred and twenty-one livres?” added the
apprentice.
“God forbid, the odd sols and farthings are mine--no more!” returned the
Master of Burials. “Also they look exact; but the courage it needs to be
honest! O my grief, if--”
“‘Sh!” said the apprentice, pointing, and the Master of Burials,
turning, saw Guida pass the window. With a hungry instinct for the
morbid they stole to the doorway and looked down the Rue d’Driere after
her. The Master was sympathetic, for had he not in his fingers at
that moment a bill for a hundred and twenty livres odd? The way the
apprentice craned his neck, and tightened the forehead over his large,
protuberant eyes, showed his intense curiosity, but the face was
implacable. It was like that of some strong fate, superior to all
influences of sorrow, shame, or death. Presently he laughed--a crackling
cackle like new-lighted kindling wood; nothing could have been more
inhuman in sound. What in particular aroused this arid mirth probably he
himself did not know. Maybe it was a native cruelty which had a sort
of sardonic pleasure in the miseries of the world. Or was it only the
perception, sometimes given to the dullest mind, of the futility of
goodness, the futility of all? This perhaps, since the apprentice shared
with Dormy Jamais his rooms at the top of the Cohue Royale; and there
must have been some natural bond of kindness between the blank, sardonic
undertaker’s apprentice and the poor beganne, who now officially rang
the bell for the meetings of the Royal Court.
The dry cackle of the apprentice as he looked after Guida roused a
mockery of indignation in the Master. “Sacre matin, a back-hander on the
jaw’d do you good, slubberdegullion--you! Ah, get go scrub the coffin
blacking from your jowl!” he rasped out with furious contempt.
The apprentice seemed not to hear, but kept on looking after Guida, a
pitiless leer on his face. “Dame, lucky for her the Sieur died before
he had chance to change his will. She’d have got ni fiche ni bran from
him.”
“Support d’en haut, if you don’t stop that I’ll give you a coffin before
your time, keg of nails--you. Sorrow and prayer at the throne of grace
that she may have a contrite heart”--he clutched the funeral bill
tighter in his fingers--“is what we must feel for her. The day the Sieur
died and it all came out, I wept. Bedtime come I had to sop my eyes with
elder-water. The day o’ the burial mine eyes were so sore a-draining I
had to put a rotten sweet apple on ‘em over-night--me.”
“Ah bah, she doesn’t need rosemary wash for her hair!” said the
apprentice admiringly, looking down the street after Guida as she turned
into the Rue d’Egypte.
Perhaps it was a momentary sympathy for beauty in distress which made
the Master say, as he backed from the doorway with stealthy step:
“Gatd’en’ale, ‘tis well she has enough to live on, and to provide for
what’s to come!”
But if it was a note of humanity in the voice it passed quickly, for
presently, as he examined the bill for the funeral of the Sieur de
Mauprat, he said shrilly:
“Achocre, you’ve left out the extra satin for his pillow--you.”
“There wasn’t any extra satin,” drawled the apprentice.
With a snarl the Master of Burials seized a pen and wrote in the
account:
Item: To extra satin for pillow, three livres.