Guinot opens their conversation again thus:
Gentleman.—“Alas, existence seems to me very worthless—all is dark!”
Lady.—“Ah, what must it be for me, then?”
Gentleman.—“How can I ever replace her fondness?”
Lady.—“To whom can I confide my griefs?”
Gentleman.—“What home will now receive me?”
Lady.—“Upon whose arm can I lean?”
In such humor our racy feuilletonist traces their walk and conversation along the parterres of that Paris garden of death; at the gate he dismisses one of the two carriages which attend them; he crowns their mutual offices of consolation with a happy reunion—never to be broken—till one shall be again a mourner, and the other a tenant of the tomb.
Thus, says he, grief moralizes; and wise resolutions ride at an easy gallop, into broken hearts!
And thus, we say, French ingenuity makes every hearse the carrier of a romance; and seasons the deepest woe with the piquancy of an intrigue!