by the troop of servants in
mourning and the rangers with crape on their caps, spoke in whispers
under the shadow of the majestic elms. But as they warmed with the wine
and the victuals, the funeral feast grew more lively, and ended in a
vast merrymaking.

To escape this unpleasant carnival, the Duchess and Paul went for a
drive, sweeping rapidly in an open carriage draped with black along the
roads and fields, abandoned to the desertion of Sunday. The mourning
cockades of the tall footmen and the long veil of the widow opposite
reminded the young man of other similar drives. He thought to himself,
'My destiny seems to lie in the way of dead husbands.' He felt a touch
of regret at the thought of Colette de Rosen's little curly head,
contrasting so brightly with the black mass of her surroundings. The
Duchess however, tired as she was by her journey, and looking stouter
than usual in her improvised mourning, had a magnificence of manner
entirely wanting in Colette, and besides, her dead husband did not
embarrass her, for she was much too frank to feign a grief which
ordinary women think necessary under such circumstances, even when the
deceased has been cordially detested and completely abandoned. The road
rang under the horses' hoofs, as it unrolled before them, climbing or
descending gentle slopes, bordered now by little oak plantations, now
by huge plains which, in the neighbourhood of the isolated mills, were
swept by circling flights of crows. A pale sunlight gleamed through rare
gaps in a sky soft, rainy, and low: and to protect them from the wind as
they drove, the same wrap enveloped them both, so that their knees were
closely pressed together under the furs. The Duchess was talking of her
native Corsica, and of a wonderful _vocero_ which had been improvised at
the funeral by her maid.

'Matea?'

'Yes, Matea. She's quite a poet, fancy'--and the Duchess quoted some
of the lines of the _voceratrice_, in the spirited Corsican dialect,
admirably suited to her contralto voice. But to the 'important decision'
she did not refer.

But it was the important decision that interested Paul Astier, and
not the verses of the lady's-maid. No doubt it would be discussed that
evening. To pass the time, he told her, in a low tone, how he had got
rid of Laniboire. 'Poor little Moser,' said the Duchess, 'her father
really must be elected this time.' After that they spoke but a word now
and then. They only drew together, lulled,