"
"Uncomfortable, if true," said the Abbe, still smiling. "When one
has been at infinite pains all one's life to present a charmingly
virtuous and noble aspect to the world, it would be indeed
distressing if at the last moment one were obliged to lift the
mask . . ."
"Sometimes one is not given the chance to lift it," interposed
Angela, "It is torn off ruthlessly by a force greater than one's
own. 'Call no man happy till his death,' you know."
"Yes, I know," and the Abbe settled himself in his chair more
comfortably;--he loved an argument with "the Sovrani", and was wont
to declare that she was the only woman in the world who had ever
made him wish to be a good man,--"But that maxim can be taken in two
ways. It may mean that no man is happy till his death,--which I most
potently believe,--or it may mean that a man is only JUDGED after
his death, in which case it cannot be said to affect his happiness,
as he is past caring whether people think ill or well of him.
Besides, after death it must needs be all right, as every man is so
particularly fortunate in his epitaph!"
Angela smiled a little.
"That is witty of you," she said, "but the fact of every man having
a kindly-worded epitaph only proves goodness of heart and feeling in
his relatives and friends--"
"Or gratitude for a fortune left to them in his will," declared the
Abbe gaily, "or a sense of relief that the dear creature has gone
and will never come back.
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