CHAPTER XXIII.
A CUP OF COFFEE.
The room was carpetless. On the floor were a quantity of shavings, and some score of bricks. Beyond these, on a narrow table, lay an object, which I could hardly believe I saw aright.
I approached and drew from it a sheet which had very slightly disguised its shape. There was no mistake about it. It was a coffin; and on the lid was a plate, with the inscription in French:
PIERRE DE LA ROCHE ST. AMAND.
AGÉE DE XXIII ANS.
I drew back with a double shock. So, then, the funeral after all had not yet left! Here lay the body. I had been deceived. This, no doubt, accounted for the embarrassment so manifest in the Countess’s manner. She would have done more wisely had she told me the true state of the case.
I drew back from this melancholy room, and closed th
