"
"What am I to do?" exclaimed the Count, "an hour would have done it all.
Was ever _contretemps_ so unlucky?"
"I'll give you an hour, with pleasure," said I.
"How very good of you, Monsieur, I hardly dare to hope it. The business,
for so gay and charming a man as Monsieur Beckett, is a little
_funeste_. Pray read this note which reached me this morning."
It certainly was not cheerful. It was a note stating that the body of
his, the Count's cousin, Monsieur de St. Amand, who had died at his
house, the Chateau Clery, had been, in accordance with his written
directions, sent for burial at Pere la Chaise, and, with the permission
of the Count de St. Alyre, would reach his house (the Chateau de la
Carque) at about ten o'clock on the night following, to be conveyed
thence in a hearse, with any member of the family who might wish to
attend the obsequies.
"I did not see the poor gentleman twice in my life," said the Count,
"but this office, as he has no other kinsman, disagreeable as it is, I
could scarcely decline, and so I want to attend at the office to have
the book signed, and the order entered. But here is another misery. By
ill luck I have sprained my thumb, and can't sign my name for a week to
come. However, one name answers as well as another. Yours as well as
mine.
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