said the duchess to her husband, "do not
regret the loss of M. d'Harville in so noisy and really so singular a
manner. Ring, if you please for my carriage."

"Yes, it is really true," said M. de Lucenay, seizing the bell-rope,
"really true that, three days ago, he was full of life and health, and,
to-day, what remains of him? Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!"

These three last exclamations were accompanied by three such violent
pulls that the bell-rope, which the duke held in his hand whilst he was
gesticulating, broke away from the upper spring, fell on a candelabra
filled with lighted wax candles, knocked two of them out of the sconces,
one of which, falling on the mantelpiece, broke a lovely little cup of
old Sevres china; whilst the other, falling on the ground, rolled on a
fur hearth rug, which took flame, but was soon extinguished under
Conrad's foot.

At the same moment, two _valets de chambre_, summoned by the furious
ringing, entered hastily, and found M. de Lucenay with the bell-rope in
his hand, the duchess laughing heartily at this ridiculous fall of the
wax lights, and M. de Montbrison sharing her mirth. M. de Saint-Remy
alone did not laugh. M. de Lucenay, quite accustomed to such accidents,
preserved his usual seriousness, and, throwing the bell-rope to one of
the men, said:

"The duchess's carriage."

Clotilde, having somewhat recovered her composure, said:

"Really, my lord, there is no man in the world but yourself capable of
exciting laughter at so lamentable an event."

"Lamentable! Say fearful. Why, now, only yesterday, I was recollecting
how many persons in my own family I would rather should have died than
poor D'Harville. First, there's my nephew, D'Emberval, who stutters so
annoyingly; then there's your Aunt Merinville, who is always talking
about her nerves and her headache, and who always gobbles up every day,
whilst she is waiting for dinner, a mess of broth like a porter's wife.
Are you very fond of your Aunt Merinville?"

"Really, my lord, have you lost your wits?" said the duchess, shrugging
her shoulders.

"It's true enough, though," continued the duke; "one would give twenty
indifferent persons for one friend; eh, Saint-Remy?"

"Unquestionably."

"It is the old story of the tailor over again. Do you know it,
Conrad,--the story of the tailor?"

"No, cousin."

"You will understand the allegory at once. A tailor was going to be
hanged; he was the only tailor in the village. What