She opened the door and admitted me.
By the light of the wax candles I saw what was surely one of the strangest sights ever presented to mortal eyes.
It was myself, lying in state!
On a high bier draped in white and black cloth, I lay, or, rather, my counterpart presentment in wax lay, wrapped and shrouded like a dead body, a branch of palm in the closed hands, and a small Russian coin resting on the lips, in accordance with a quaint custom which formerly prevailed in many lands.
In spite of my habitual self-command I was unable to repress a cold shiver at this truly appalling spectacle.
“Your stage management is perfect,” I observed after a pause. “But will they be satisfied with a look only?”
“I do not think so. It will be necessary for you to put on the appearance of death for a short time, till I have satisfied them. Afterward I can conceal you in here, while this—” she pointed to the ghastly figure—“is buried under your name.”
“Let us get back to the other room, before we talk about it,” I urged. “This is not altogether a pleasant sight.”
As we passed out of the oratory I stealthily took note of the fastening of the door. The lock was on the outside only; in other words, if I permitted myself to be immured in the cell-like chamber, I should be a prisoner at the mercy of my charming friend.
“And now, by what means do you purpose that I shall assume the appearance of death?” I inquired as soon as we had returned to the boudoir.