"Pray, my lord," said the duchess to her husband, "do not regret M. d'Harville in a manner so noisy, and, above all, so singularly. Ring, if you please, for my servants." "Only to think," said M. de Lucenay, seizing hold of the bell-pull, "three days ago he was full of life, and now, what remains of him? Nothing, nothing, nothing!" These last three exclamations were accompanied by three pulls of the bell so violent, that the cord broke which he held in his hand, separated from the upper string, and fell upon a candelabra filled with waxlights, and overturned two; one fell upon the mantelpiece, and broke a beautiful little vase of Sevres china; the other rolled on the ground, and set fire to a rug of ermine, which, for a moment in a blaze, was almost immediately extinguished by Conrad. At the same moment, two valets, summoned by the loud ringing, arrived in haste, and found M. de Lucenay with the bell rope in his hand, the duchess laughing violently at this ridiculous cascade of candies, and Montbrison partaking the hilarity of his cousin. Saint Remy alone did not laugh. [Illustration: CAPITAL AND LABOR IN HARMONY ] Lucenay, quite habituated to such accidents, preserved a serious countenance; he threw the rope to one of the servants, and said, "The coach!" When he became a little more calm, the duchess said, "Really, sir, there is no one else in the world but yourself who could have caused a laugh at so lamentable an event." "Lamentable! you may well say frightful! horrible! Now, only see, since yesterday I have been thinking how many persons there are, even in my own family, who I would rather should have died than poor D'Harville. My nephew Emberval, for instance, who is so tiresome with his stammering; or your aunt Merinville, who is always talking of her nerves, her blues, and who swallows every day, while waiting for her dinner, an abominable potpie, just like a bricklayer's wife! Do you think much of your aunt Merinville?" "Hush! your grace is crazy!" said the duchess, shrugging her shoulders. "But it is true," answered the duke; "one would give a hundred indifferent persons for a friend. Is it not so, Saint Remy?" "Doubtless." "It is always that old story of the tailor. Do you know, Conrad, the story of the tailor?" "No, cousin." "You will understand at once the allegory. A tailor was condemned to be hung; there was no other tailor in the village; what do the inhabitants do? They said to the judge, 'Your honor, we have only one tailor, and we have three shoemakers; if it is all the same to you to hang one of the shoemakers in the place of the tailor, we shall have quite enough with two shoemakers.' Do you comprehend the allegory, Conrad?" 'Yes, cousin." "And you, Saint Remy?" "I also." "The coach," said one of the servants. "Oh! but why do you not wear your diamonds?" said M. de Lucenay, unexpectedly; "with this dress they would look devilish well." Saint Remy shuddered.