Mademoiselle, I have been a nurse for many years. I know my duties.
The moment the doctor left me I verified his statements. I proved that
the patient was sleeping by feeling his pulse and observing his
breath."

Fanny made no reply. She could hardly remind this respectable person
that after the doctor left her she employed herself first in examining
the cupboards, drawers, _armoire,_ and other things; that she then
found a book with pictures, in which she read for a quarter of an hour
or so; that she then grew sleepy and dropped the book--

"I then," continued the widow, "made arrangements against his
waking--that is to say, I drew back the curtains and turned over the
sheet to air the bed"--O Madame! Madame! Surely this was
needless!--"shook up the pillows, and occupied myself in the cares of a
conscientious nurse until the time came to administer the first dose of
medicine. Then I proceeded to awaken my patient. Figure to yourself! He
whom I had left tranquilly breathing, with the regularity of a
convalescent rather than a dying man, was dead! He was dead!"

"You are sure he was dead?"

"As if I had never seen a dead body before! I called the doctor, but it
was for duty only, for I knew that he was dead."

"And then?"

"Then the doctor--who must also have known that he was dead--felt his
pulse and his heart, and looked at his eyes, and declared that he was
dead."

"And then?"

"What then? If a man is dead he is dead. You cannot restore him to
life. Yet one thing the doctor did. He brought a camera and took a
photograph of the dead man for the sake of his friends."

"Oh! he took a photograph of--of Lord Harry Norland. What did he do
that for?"

"I tell you: for the sake of his friends."

Fanny was more bewildered than ever. Why on earth should the doctor
want a photograph of the Dane Oxbye to show the friends of Lord Harry?
Could he have made a blunder as stupid as it was uncalled for? No one
could possibly mistake the dead face of that poor Dane for the dead
face of Lord Harry.

She had got all the information she wanted--all, in fact, that was of
any use to her. One thing remained. She would see the grave.

The cemetery of Auteuil is not so large as that of Pere-la-Chaise, nor
does it contain so many celebrated persons as the latter--perhaps the
greatest cemetery, as regards its illustrious dead, in the whole world.
It is the cemetery of the better class. The tombs are not those of
Immortals but of