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 Chamber1 and the Institute not sitting, his funeral train would have been composed of Academicians attentive2 to their tallies3, 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 entirely4 blank, when, as there was no crime, or duel5, or interesting lawsuit6, or political event, the sensational7 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 gathering8 round St. Germain des Prés. The traffic was stopped, and no carriages but those of persons invited were allowed to pass within the rails, strictly9 kept by a line of policemen posted at intervals10. Who Loisillon was, what he had done in his seventy years’ sojourn11 among mankind, what was the meaning of the capital letter embroidered12 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 grandeur13. 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 conversing14 in front of the church.
There, under the black-draped porch, was the place for hearing the true funeral oration15 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 Superintendent16 at the Beaux-Arts. The man was a sort of shrewd attorney, creeping and cringing17, 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 complacently18, as he bustled19 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 corpse20, the remains21 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 pompous22 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 idols23, 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 pretext24 that the deceased had been the president of some sort of Actors’ Orphanage25, but moved in reality by the frantic26 determination ‘not to be out of it,’ which belongs to their class. Their expressions of woe27 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 distressing28 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 besought29 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 nave30, with its background of glimmering31 tapers32, fell down before a desk on the ladies’ side in a prostration33 of self-abandonment, and rising with a sorrowful air said to another actress at her side, ‘How much did they take at the Vaudeville34 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 embarrassment35, as the sculptor36 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 complexion37 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 grandees38 at Chantilly? So you are still bent39 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 wager40 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 tilted41 awry42 by the bumps of his skull43, and the vegetable green of the coat threw into relief the earthy colour and scaly44 texture45 of his elephantine visage. At his side was the grim tall Laniboire with purple apoplectic46 veins47 and a crooked48 mouth. His uniform was covered by an overcoat whose insufficient49 length left visible the end of his sword and the tails of the frock, and gave him an appearance certainly much less dignified50 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 absurdity51 of their disguise, which, though it might pass in the chastened light of their historic dome52, 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 undesirable53 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 muskets55 that fell on the flags with a single blow (at the command of a boyish little martinet56, 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 muffled57 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 agitation58 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 haughtily59 and passing his hand over his head as he habitually60 does, doubtless to ascertain61 the safety of his back hair.
‘He did not recognise me,’ thought Freydet, hurt by the crushing glance with which the Academician relegated62 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 swelling63 notes of an opera singer, asking repose64 for Loisillon, whom it might be thought the Divine Mercy had destined65 to special torment66, for all through the church, loud and soft, in every variety of voice, solo and in unison67, came the supplication68 for ‘repose, repose.’ Ah, let him sleep quietly after his many years of turmoil69 and intrigue70! The solemn stirring chant was answered in the nave by women’s sobbing71, above which rose the tragic72 convulsive gasp73 of Marguerite Oger, the gasp so impressive in the fourth act of ‘Musidora.’ All this lamentation74 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 spoke75 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 sneering76 voice of fat Lavaux, grinning close at his ear. He turned round angrily; but here the young officer gave at stentorian77 pitch the command ‘Carry—arms!’ and the bayonets rattled78 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 subdued79 by the dim religious light of the lofty building as they walked down the central aisle80, 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 indifference81 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 miraculous82 immortality83 justified84 the name, it could only be applied85 in mockery to the band of patriarchs who followed him. Decrepit86, 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 strutted87 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 depressed88, 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 hubbub89 and the scraping of chairs. It sent the candidate’s blood tingling90 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 coffin91 under its heap of countless92 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 melancholy93 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 Fran?ais 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 trot94. People were leaning out of all the windows in the square, and over towards the Boulevard Saint-Germain men standing54 on the stationary95 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 posthumous96 glory which certainly could not be ascribed to the author of the ‘Journey in Val d’Andorre,’ though at the same time he was distressed97 at noticing that his dear ‘future colleagues’ obviously kept him at a distance, became meditative98 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 calamity99, 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 jaw100 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. Vaguely101 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 furrow102, set there by one fixed103 idea, all expressing with their eyes the same hatred104 and distrust of their neighbours. When he had got over his discomfiture105, and was able to identify these persons, he recognised the faded, hopeless face of old Moser, the candidate everlasting106; 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 drawn107 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 craving108, never to be appeased109. And while he vowed110 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 trumpets111, 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 Fran?aise—for nothing, servant to nothing.
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1
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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tallies
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| n.账( tally的名词复数 )；符合；（计数的）签；标签v.计算，清点( tally的第三人称单数 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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orphanage
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| n.孤儿院 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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martinet
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| n.要求严格服从纪律的人 | |
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57
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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stentorian
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| adj.大声的，响亮的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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107
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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109
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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110
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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111
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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