"Yes, it is really true," said M. de Lucenay, seizing the bell-rope, "really true that, three days ago, he was full of life and health, and, to-day, what remains of him? Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!" These three last exclamations were accompanied by three such violent pulls that the bell-rope, which the duke held in his hand whilst he was gesticulating, broke away from the upper spring, fell on a candelabra filled with lighted wax candles, knocked two of them out of the sconces, one of which, falling on the mantelpiece, broke a lovely little cup of old Sevres china; whilst the other, falling on the ground, rolled on a fur hearth rug, which took flame, but was soon extinguished under Conrad's foot. At the same moment, two _valets de chambre_, summoned by the furious ringing, entered hastily, and found M. de Lucenay with the bell-rope in his hand, the duchess laughing heartily at this ridiculous fall of the wax lights, and M. de Montbrison sharing her mirth. M. de Saint-Remy alone did not laugh. M. de Lucenay, quite accustomed to such accidents, preserved his usual seriousness, and, throwing the bell-rope to one of the men, said: "The duchess's carriage." Clotilde, having somewhat recovered her composure, said: "Really, my lord, there is no man in the world but yourself capable of exciting laughter at so lamentable an event." "Lamentable! Say fearful. Why, now, only yesterday, I was recollecting how many persons in my own family I would rather should have died than poor D'Harville. First, there's my nephew, D'Emberval, who stutters so annoyingly; then there's your Aunt Merinville, who is always talking about her nerves and her headache, and who always gobbles up every day, whilst she is waiting for dinner, a mess of broth like a porter's wife. Are you very fond of your Aunt Merinville?" "Really, my lord, have you lost your wits?" said the duchess, shrugging her shoulders. "It's true enough, though," continued the duke; "one would give twenty indifferent persons for one friend; eh, Saint-Remy?" "Unquestionably." "It is the old story of the tailor over again. Do you know it, Conrad,--the story of the tailor?" "No, cousin." "You will understand the allegory at once. A tailor was going to be hanged; he was the only tailor in the village. What were the inhabitants to do? They said to the judge, 'Please your judgeship, we have only one tailor, and we have three shoemakers; if it is all the same to you, please to hang one of the three shoemakers in the place of the tailor, for two shoemakers are enough.' Do you understand the allegory, Conrad?" "Yes, cousin." "And you, Saint-Remy?" "Quite." "Her grace's carriage!" said one of the servants. "But, I say, why haven't you put on your diamonds?" asked M. de Lucenay, abruptly; "with that dress they would look remarkably well." Saint-Remy shuddered.