But he looked what he was supposed to be, the humble, ill-paid,
half-starved librarian, mourning the master he had faithfully
served for thirty years. He knelt a long time, his lips moving
mechanically with the words of an oft-repeated prayer. In reality
he was afraid to rise from his knees alone, and was waiting until
some of the others made the first move. But the rows of lacqueys,
doubtless believing that the amount of their future wages would
largely depend upon the vigour of their present mourning, did not
seem inclined to desist from their orisons. To Meschini the time
was interminable, and his courage was beginning to ooze away from
him, as the sense of his position acquired a tormenting force. He
could have borne it well enough in a church, in the midst of a
vast congregation, he could have fought off his horror even here
for a few minutes, but to sustain such a part for a quarter of an
hour seemed almost impossible. He would have given his soul, which
indeed was just then of but small value, to take a sip of courage
from the bottle, and his clasped fingers twitched nervously,
longing to find the way to his pocket. He glanced along the line,
measuring his position, to see whether there was a possibility of
drinking without being observed, but he saw that it would be
madness to think of it, and began repeating his prayer with
redoubled energy, in the hope of distracting his mind.
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