Consciousness came to Mr. St. John. He rose slowly, shook himself out of a shuddering-fit, and with a last wild yearning glance at the dead, fell into the line of the retreaters. But it was Miss Carr who now detained him: Adeline's message had yet to be given. "The address on the packet was in _her_ handwriting, Mr. St. John," she whispered; "she wrote it yesterday, only a few hours before she died She charged me to say that everything is there, except the ring, which has never been off her finger since you placed it there, and will be buried with her; and to tell you that she had been ever faithful to you; as in life, so unto death." Mr. St. John listened, and nodded in reply, with the abstracted air of one who answers what he does not hear, touching unconsciously the breast-pocket of his coat, where lay the packet. "There was something else," continued she, "but I dare not venture to breathe that here. Later, perhaps?" Again he nodded with the same look of abstraction, never speaking; and began to follow in the wake of the crowd, who had taken their fill of gazing, and were making their way from the room. "He is a fine young man, though," exclaimed M. Durante, looking after St. John with eyes of admiration. "But he is very pale: he has scarcely recovered himself." "To think that he should have dropped at seeing a corpse, just as one might drop a stone, a fine strong man like him!" responded a neighbouring chemist, who had stepped in to have a look at the reception. "Qu'ils sont drôles, ces Anglais-là!" CHAPTER XXXI. UNAVAILING REPENTANCE. Rose Darling struggled out of the room with Mr. St. John: not caring to remain in it, possibly, without his sheltering presence. They went downstairs with the crowd--all silent and well-behaved, but still a crowd--and then Rose drew him into the small snug room that had been her abiding place and Mary's for the day. Mr. St. John sat down, and leaned his head upon his hand. In a shock like this, he could not make believe not to feel it, or to gloss it over; indeed he was an independent man at all times, utterly refusing to give in to the false artificialities of society. Rose slipped away, and brought him a glass of wine; but he shook his head, declining to take it. Mary Carr had not come with them; it turned out afterwards that she thought he had left the house. "When did she die?" was the first question he presently asked. "Last night; a few minutes before twelve." "Just as I was stepping on board the steamer at Folkestone," he murmured to himself. "Why is she--_there_, Rose?--dressed--in that form? Are they mad?" "It is a custom they have in France, as it seems; but I had never before heard of it," answered Rose. "Hark at the people passing up still!" A shiver of remembrance took him, but it was conquered immediately. Rose untied the black string of her straw bonnet, and put it on the table.