"Nothing: I guess he won't gas no more," motioning toward the tarpaulin. "Them's his'n. Do you know where his aunt lives?"
Anybody knows; the van drives off; the rumor flies—both parties slain.
Let us follow the van. At Aunt Fanny's the tarpaulin is thrown off, and reveals nothing worse than a trunk, gun-case, etc., but the man's story confirms the worst. He has a letter for the dowager, and it is sent up. The dowager calls ma'amselle to read, which she does with strong emotion and French accent:
"My Dear and Venerated Aunt—"
"Hand me the vinaigrette, and don't read so loud: I am not deaf," said the dowager.
The poor maid subdued her tones as she best could, and read:
"Now is the hour when churchyards yawn and graves give up their dead. It is midnight's holy hour. I hear the rush of the Falls like a mill-sluice, and it recalls 'the happy, happy hours of childhood.' But ere another day I may ride upon the Styx, and hear the dam loud roaring no more."
"Ride upon a stick, and hear what?" ejaculated the dowager at poor Lind's rhetoric.
"Mais oui, madame," translates the French maid, "c'est la fleuve de l'enfer et les cris des âmes perdues."
"Oh, the Styx!" said the dowager, taking snuff.—"Use your handkerchief, Hortense, and go on."