ons was being proclaimed on both banks of the Loire,
between Mousseaux and Onzain, by mourners hired from Vafflard's, wearing
tall hats with crape mufflers that reached the ground, and ringing their
heavy bells as they walked. Paul Astier, hearing the words as he came
downstairs to the midday breakfast, felt his heart beat high with joy
and pride. Four days ago the news of the Duke's death had startled
Mousseaux as the report of a gun startles a covey of partridges, and had
unexpectedly dispersed and scattered the second instalment of guests to
various seaside and holiday resorts. The Duchess had had to set off
at once for Corsica, leaving at the castle only a few very intimate
friends. The melancholy sound of the voices and moving bells, carried
to Paul's ear by a breeze from the river through the open panes of
the staircase window, the antiquated and princely form of the funeral
invitation, could not but invest the domain of Mousseaux with an
impressive air of grandeur, which added to the height of its four towers
and its immemorial trees. And as all this was to be his (for the Duchess
on leaving had begged him to stay at the castle, as there were important
decisions to be taken on her return), the proclamation of death sounded
in his ears like the announcement of his approaching installation. 'Pray
for the repose of the soul,' said the voices. At last he really had
fortune within his grasp, and this time it should not be taken from him.
'Member of the Senate, Ambassador and Minister,' said the voices again.

'Those bells are depressing, are they not, Monsieur Paul?' said
Mdlle. Moser who was sitting at breakfast between her father and the
Academician Laniboire. The Duchess had kept these guests at Mousseaux,
partly to amuse Paul's solitude and partly to give a little more
rest and fresh air to the poor 'Antigone,' kept in bondage by the
interminable candidature of her father. There was certainly no fear that
the Duchess would find a rival in this woman, who had eyes like a beaten
hound, hair without colour, and no other thought but her humiliating
petition for the unattainable place in the Academie. But on this
particular morning she had taken more pains than usual with her
appearance, and wore a bright dress open at the neck. The poor neck was
very thin and lean, but--there was no higher game. So Laniboire, in high
spirits, was teasing her with a gay freedom. No, he did not think the
death-bells at all depressing, no