Dangeau shuddered lightly. A gruesome welcome this.
"I would not go and see such things," he said.
"Sometimes I wish—" began Rosalie, and then paused; a red patch came on either sallow cheek. "It is too ennuyant when there is nothing to excite one, voyez-vous? Yesterday there were five, and one of them struggled. Ah, that gave me a palpitation! They say it was n't an aristocrat. They all die alike, with a little stretched smile and steady eyes—no crying out—I find that tiresome at the last."
"Why, Rosalie," said Dangeau, "you should stay at home as you used to. Since when have you become a gadabout? You will finish by having bad dreams and losing your appetite."
Rosalie looked up with a sort of horrid animation.
"Ah, j'y suis déjà," she said quickly. "Already I see them in the night. A week ago I wake, cold, wet—and there stands the Citizen Cléry with his head under his arm like any St. Denis. Could I eat next day?—Ma foi, no! And why should he come to me, that Cléry? Was it I who had a hand in his death? These revenants have not common-sense. It is my cousin Thérèse whose nights should be disturbed, not mine."
Dangeau looked at her steadily.
"Come, come, Rosalie," he said, "enough of this—Edmond Cléry's head is safe enough."
"Yes, yes," nodded Rosalie, "safe enough in the great trench. Safe enough till Judgment day, and then it is Thérèse who must answer, and not I. It was none of my doing."
"But, Rosalie—mon Dieu! what are you saying—Edmond——?"