“Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course
With rocks and stones and trees.”
November 3d.
Antoinette came up this morning with a large cardboard box addressed to Carlotta. The messenger who brought it was waiting downstairs.
“I came to Monsieur to know whether I should send it back,” said Antoinette, on the verge of tears.
“No,” said I, “leave it here.”
From the furrier’s label, I saw that the box contained some furs I had ordered for Carlotta a fortnight ago—she shivered so, poor child, in this wintry climate.
“But, Monsieur,” began Antoinette, “the poor angel—”
“May want it in heaven,” said I.
The good woman stared.
“We’ll be like the ancient Egyptians, Antoinette,” I explained, “who placed food and wine and raiment and costly offerings in the tombs of the departed, so that their shades could come and enjoy them for all eternity. We’ll have to make believe, Antoinette, that this is a tomb, for one can’t rear a pyramid in London, though it is a desert sufficiently vast; and the little second floor room is the inner sanctuary where the body lies in silence embalmed with sweet spices and swathed in endless bands of linen.”