“My dear fellow,” said Morgan, “what we call stupid, what ordinary minds never do understand in such a case, has many a chance to become sublime.”
“Well, well,” said Valensolle, “I see that you will lose more than I do in this business; I put devotion into it, but you put enthusiasm.”
Morgan sighed.
“Here we are,” said he, letting the conversation drop, like a burden too heavy to be carried longer. In fact, his foot had just struck against the first step of a stairway.
Preceding Valensolle, for whom he lighted the way, Morgan went up ten steps and reached the gate. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened it. They found themselves in the burial vault. On each side of the vault stood coffins on iron tripods: ducal crowns and escutcheons, blazoned azure, with the cross argent, indicated that these coffins belonged to the family of Savoy before it came to bear the royal crown. A flight of stairs at the further end of the cavern led to an upper floor.
Valensolle cast a curious glance around him, and by the vacillating light of the torch, he recognized the funereal place he was in.
“The devil!” said he, “we are just the reverse of the Spartans, it seems.”
“Inasmuch as they were Republicans and we are royalists?” asked Morgan.
“No; because they had skeletons at the end of their suppers, and we have ours at the beginning.”
“Are you sure it was the Spartans who proved their philosophy in that way?” asked Morgan, closing the door.