"She's asleep, fast enough," repeated the nurse; "she is too quiet to be awake." And Louise resumed, in the hushed, peculiar tone she had been using; it sounded awfully mysterious, taken in conjunction with her subject, through the space of that dying room. "Susanne thinks that mademoiselle will be exhibited." "_What?_" ejaculated the nurse, in a startled tone. "Qu'elle sera exposée après sa mort." (I prefer to give this sentence in the language in which the conversation was carried on.) "What in the world do you mean?" demanded Rose, waking up from her semi-sleep. "That Mademoiselle Adeline will hold a reception after death, mademoiselle." "Louise, what _do_ you mean?" persisted Rose, opening her eyes to their utmost width. But Mary Carr had taken in, and understood, the full meaning of the words; she was more generally acquainted with French manners and customs than Rose: and as her eye caught the reflection of her own face in the large pier-glass, she saw that it had turned of a ghastly whiteness. "You don't follow this fashion in your country, mademoiselle, so I have learnt," whispered the nurse, addressing Rose. "Neither is it kept up here as it used to be. We scarcely ever meet with a case now. But I have heard my mother say--she was a sage-femme, mademoiselle, as well as a garde-malade--that when she was a girl there was scarcely a young gentlewoman of good family, who died unmarried, but what held her reception after death. And in my time, also, I have seen many splendid exhibitions." "Oh, nurse, nurse," shivered Mary Carr, "_don't_ talk so." "What's the matter, mademoiselle?" asked the woman, kindly gazing at Miss Carr's scared face. "You look ill." "I feel sick," was Mary Carr's faint answer. "I cannot help it. I think what you are talking of is _horrible_." "Do explain what it is you are talking of," interrupted Rose, impatiently. "La garde! what is it all?"