'You've made me miss my train,' he said, pretending to be annoyed.
'Sorry, sir. Simon, the governor isn't going.'
Simon descended from the box for confirmation, a fratricide in all but
deed.
'Have the luggage taken upstairs,' Hugo commanded.
He sat for seven hours in the dome, scarcely moving.
At nine o'clock Albert was announced.
'Coffin just come up, sir,' he said, 'from railway-station.'
But that was the limit of his news.
Within an hour Hugo went to bed. He could not sleep; he had known that
he could not sleep. The wild and savage threat of Louis Ravengar, and
the question, 'Which?' haunted his brain. At one o'clock in the morning
he switched on all the lights, rose out of bed, and walked aimlessly
about the chamber. Something, some morbid impulse, prompted him to take
up the General Catalogue, which lay next to a priceless copy of the 1603
edition of Florio's 'Montaigne.' There were pages and pages about
funerals in the General Catalogue, and forty fine photographic specimens
of tombstones and monuments.
'Funerals conducted in town or country.... Cremations and embalmments
undertaken.... Special stress is laid on the appearance and efficiency
of the attendants, and on the reverent manner in which they perform all
their duties.
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