There was no help; the moment was gone.  Lucia’s head was full of the unhappy Duke of Orleans, and it would, have been very bad policy, Maurice thought, to oppose her whim.  He rang the bell, and they were admitted without difficulty into the open space in front of the chapel.  The old man who let them in pointed to the half-open door, and, saying that his wife was in there with a party, retreated, and left them to find their own way into the building itself.  They passed quietly through the entrance and into the soft grey light of the chapel.  Lucia stopped only to take one glance of the tiny interior, so coldly mournful with its black draperies and chill white and grey marble, and then passed round to examine more closely the monument which marks the very spot where the fatal accident occurred.  Maurice followed her.  They stood half concealed by the monument, and speaking low, while the tones of other voices could be distinctly heard from the recess behind the altar where the English visitors were examining the picture of the Duke’s death.  There was one rather high-pitched female voice which broke the solemn stillness unpleasantly, and as it became more audible, Lucia laid her hand softly on Maurice’s arm to make him listen, and looked up in his face with eyes full of laughter.  The lady was talking French to the guide with a strong English accent and in a peculiar drawl, which had a very droll effect.  It was a manner new to them both, though Maurice could not help thinking, as he listened, of Percy in his worst moods.

“I am glad to have seen it,” the voice said, “and quite by chance, too; it is excessively interesting, so melancholy.  Ah! you say that they laid him just there?  It makes one shudder!  No, I will not go near the place; it is too shocking.”

At the last words Maurice and Lucia saw the speaker emerge from behind the altar on the side furthest from where they stood.  She was a tall woman, neither young nor pretty, but very fashionable—­distinguished, Lucia supposed she should be called; and but for the peculiarity of her voice, would have made a favourable rather than an unfavourable impression on a stranger.  She stopped just at the top of the steps, and turned round to speak again to some one behind her who was still concealed by the altar.  This time she spoke English in a lower tone, and with a greater drawl.

“Really, Edward,” she said, “it is very small.  Pray don’t give the woman much; you know how heavy our expenses are.  I think I ought to carry the purse.”

“As you please, my dear; it would save me trouble, certainly.”

At the sound of that second voice Maurice started and looked at Lucia.  She had suddenly grasped at the stonework before her, and stood looking with passionate eagerness over the carved figure of the dying Duke towards the altar.  He almost shuddered at the intensity of that gaze—­the rigidity of intolerable suspense in her whole figure; but he could only be still and watch her.