“I would like to ask you a question first,” said Matignon.
“Proceed.”
“I wish to see an undertaking establishment.” “An undairtaking estableeshment,” the good man called it.
“There are none here,” replied Quentin. “They are all far away; but if you should see a shop where they sell guitars, you may be pretty sure that that is where they make coffins, too.”
“Can it be possible?”
“Yes. It’s a Cordovese custom.”
M. Matignon’s mouth fell open in surprise.
“It is extraordinary!” he exclaimed when he had recovered from his astonishment, and he drew a memorandum book and a pencil from his pocket. “Where did this custom come from?”
“Oh! It is very ancient. The casket-makers here declared that they were loath to confine their efforts to sad things, so from the same wood out of which they make a coffin, they take a piece for a guitar.”
“Admirable! Admirable! And they do not know that in France! What a philosophy is that of the casket-maker! O, Cordova, Cordova! How little thou art known in the world!”