t　up　to　the　table；　and　leaned　over　it　to　see　distinctly。　The　page　was　full。　A　blank　space　was　pointed　out　to　him　below　a　signature　in　a　very　small；　spidery　hand；　such　as　is　frequently　written　by　very　fat　fingers；　and　when　he　had　signed；　it　proved　to　be　the　name　of　Hemerlingue　dominating　his　own；　crushing　it；　clasping　it　round　with　insidious　flourish。　Superstitious；　like　the　true　Latin　he　was；　he　was　struck　by　this　omen；　and　went　away　frightened　by　it。
  Where　should　he　dine？　At　the　club？　Place　Vendome？　To　hear　still　more　talk　of　this　death　that　obsessed　him！　He　preferred　to　go　somewhere　by　chance；　walking　straight　before　him；　like　all　those　who　are　a　prey　to　some　fixed　idea　which　they　hope　to　conjure　away　by　rapid　movement。　The　evening　was　warm；　the　air　full　of　sweet　scents。　He　walked　along　the　quays；　and　reached　the　trees　of　the　Cours…la…Reine；　then　found　himself　breathing　that　air　in　which　is　mingled　the　freshness　of　watered　roads　and　the　odour　of　fine　dust　so　characteristic　of　summer　evenings　in　Paris。　At　that　hour　all　was　deserted。　Here　and　there　chandeliers　were　being　lighted　for　the　concerts；　blazes　of　gaslight　flared　among　the　green　trees。　A　sound　of　glasses　and　plates　from　a　restaurant　gave　him　the　idea　of　going　in。
  The　strong　man　was　hungry　despite　all　his　troubles。　He　was　served　under　a　veranda　with　glazed　walls　backed　by　shrubs；　and　facing　the　great　porch　of　the　Palais　de　l'Industrie；　where　the　duke；　in　the　presence　of　a　thousand　people；　had　greeted　him　as　a　deputy。　The　refined；　aristocratic　face　rose　before　his　memory　in　the　darkness　of　the　sky；　while　he　could　see　it　also　as　it　lay　over　yonder　on　the　funereal　whiteness　of　the　pillow；　and　suddenly；　as　he　ran　his　eye　over　the　bill　of　fare　presented　to　him　by　the　waiter；　he　noticed　with　stupefaction　that　it　bore　the　date　of　the　20th　of　May。　So　a　month　had　not　elapsed　since　the　opening　of　the　exhibition。　It　seemed　to　him　like　ten　years　ago。　Gradually；　however；　the　warmth　of　the　meal　cheered　him。　In　the　corridor　he　could　hear　waiters　talking：
  〃Has　anybody　heard　news　of　Mora？　It　appears　he　is　very　ill。〃
  〃Nonsense！　He　will　get　over　it；　you　will　see。　Men　like　him　get　all　the　luck。〃
  And　so　deeply　is　hope　implanted　in　the　human　soul；　that；　despite　what　Jansoulet　had　himself　seen　and　heard；　these　few　words；　helped　by　two　bottles　of　burgundy　and　a　few　glasses　of　cognac；　sufficed　to　restore　his　courage。　After　all；　people　had　been　known　to　recover　from　illnesses　quite　as　desperate。　Doctors　often　exaggerate　the　ill　in　order　to　get　more　credit　afterward　for　curing　it。　〃Suppose　I　called　to　inquire。〃　He　made　his　way　back　towards　the　house；　full　of　illusion；　trusting　to　that　chance　which　had　served　him　so　many　times　in　his　life。　And　indeed　the　aspect　of　the　princely　abode　had　something　about　it　to　fortify　his　hope。　It　presented　the　reassuring　and　tranquil　appearance　of　ordinary　evenings；　from　the　avenue　with　its　lights　at　long　intervals；　majestic　and　deserted；　to　the　steps　where　stood　waiting　a　huge　carriage　of　old…fashioned　shape。
  In　the　antechamber；　peaceful　also；　two　enormous　lamps　were　burning。　A　footman　slept　in　a　corner；　the　porter　was　reading　before　the　fireplace。　He　looked　at　the　new　arrival　over　his　spectacles；　made　no　remark；　and　Jansoulet　dared　ask　no　question。　Piles　of　newspapers　lying　on　the　table　in　their　wrappers；　addressed　to　the　duke；　seemed　to　have　been　thrown　there　as　useless。　The　Nabob　took　up　one　of　them；　opened　it；　and　tried　to　read；　but　quick　and　gliding　steps；　a　muttered　chanting；　made　him　lift　his　eyes；　and　he　saw　a　white…haired　and　bent　old　man；　decked　out　in　lace　as　though　he　had　been　an　altar；　who　was　praying　aloud　as　he　departed　with　a　long　priestly　stride；　his　ample　red　cassock　spreading　in　a　train　over　the　carpet。　It　was　the　Archbishop　of　Paris；　accompanied　by　two　assistants。　The　vision；　with　its　murmur　as　of　an　icy　north　wind；　passed　quickly　before　Jansoulet；　plunged　into　the　great　carriage　and　disappeared；　carrying　away　with　it　his　last　hope。
  〃Doing　the　right　thing；　/mon　cher/；〃　remarked　Monpavon；　appearing　suddenly　at　his　side。　〃Mora　is　an　epicurean；　brought　up　in　the　ideas　of　how　do　you　sayyou　knowwhat　is　it　you　call　it？　Eighteenth　century。　Very　bad　for　the　masses；　if　a　man　in　his　positionpsps　ps　Ah；　he　is　the　master　who　sets　us　all　an　examplepsps　irreproachable　manners！〃
  〃Then；　it　is　all　over？〃　said　Jansoulet；　overwhelmed。　〃There　is　no　longer　any　hope？〃
  Monpavon　signed　to　him　to　listen。　A　carriage　rolled　heavily　along　the　avenue　on　the　quay。　The　visitors'　bell　rang　sharply　several　times　in　succession。　The　marquis　counted　aloud：　〃One；　two；　three；　four。〃　At　the　fifth　he　rose：
  〃No　more　hope　now。　Here　comes　the　other；〃　said　he；　alluding　to　the　Parisian　superstition　that　a　visit　from　the　sovereign　was　always　fatal　to　dying　persons。　From　every　side　the　lackeys　hastened　up；　opened　the　doors　wide；　ranged　themselves　in　line；　while　the　porter；　his　hat　cocked　forward　and　his　staff　resounding　on　the　marble　floor；　announced　the　passage　of　two　august　shadows；　of　whom　Jansoulet　only　caught　a　confused　glimpse　behind　the　liveried　domestics；　but　whom　he　saw　beyond　a　long　perspective　of　open　doors　climbing　the　great　staircase；　preceded　by　a　footman　bearing　a　candelabrum。　The　woman　ascended；　erect　and　proud；　enveloped　in　a　black　Spanish　mantilla；　the　man　supported　himself　by　the　baluster；　slower　in　his　movements　and　tired；　the　collar　of　his　light　overcoat　turned　up　above　a　rather　bent　back；　which　was　shaken　by　a　convulsive　sob。
  〃Let　us　be　off；　Nabob。　Nothing　more　to　be　done　here；〃　said　the　old　beau；　taking　Jansoulet　by　the　arm　and　drawing　him　outside。　He　paused　on　the　threshold；　with　raised　hand；　making　a　little　gesture　of　farewell　in　the　direction　of　the　man　who　lay　dying　upstairs。　〃Good…bye　old　fellow！〃　The　gesture　and　the　tone　were　polite；　irreproachable；　but　the　voice　trembled　a　little。
  The　club　in　the　Rue　Royale；　which　was　famous　for　its　gambling　parties；　rarely　saw　one　so　desperate　as　the　gaming　of　that　night。　It　commenced　at　eleven　o'clock　and　was　still　going　on　at　five　in　the　morning。　Enormous　sums　were　scattered　over　the　green　cloth；　changing　hands；　moved　now　to　one　side；　now　to　the　other；　heaped　up；　distributed；　regained。　Fortunes　were　engulfed　in　this　monster　play；　at　the　end　of　which　the　Nabob；　who　had　started　it　to　forget　his　terrors　in　the　hazards　of　chance；　after　singular　alternations　and　runs　of　luck　enough　to　turn　the　hair　of　a　beginner　white；　retired　with　winnings　amounting　to　five　hundred　thousand　francs。　On　the　boulevard　the　next　day　they　said　five　millions；　and　everybody　cried　out　on　the　scandal；　especially　the　/Messenger/；　three…quarters　filled　by　an　article　against　certain　adventurers　tolerated　in　the　clubs；　and　who　cause　the　ruin　of　the　most　honourable　families。
  Alas！　what　Jansoulet　had　won　hardly　represented　enough　to　meet　the　first　Schwalbach　bills。
  During　this　wild　play；　of　which　Mora　was；　however；　the　involuntary　cause；　and；　as　it　were；　the　soul；　his　name　was　not　once　uttered。　Neither　Cardailhac　nor　Jenkins　put　in　an　appearance。　Monpavon　had　taken　to　his　bed；　stricken　more　deeply　than　he　wished　it　to　be　thought。　Nobody　had　any　news。
  〃Is　he　dead？〃　Jansoulet　said　to　himself　as　he　left　the　club；　and　he　felt　a　desire　to　make　a　call　to　inquire　before　going　home。　It　was　no　longer　hope　that　urged　him；　but　that　sort　of　morbid　and　nervous　curiosity　which　after　a　great　fire　leads　the　smitten　unfortunate　people；　ruined　and　homeless；　back　to　the　wreck　of　their　dwellings。
  Although　it　was　still　very　early；　and　a　pink　mist　of　dawn　hung　in　the　sky；　the　whole　mansion　stood　open　as　if　for　a　solemn　departure。　The　lamps　still　smoked　over　the　fire…places；　dust　floated　about　the　rooms。　The　Nabob　advanced　amid　an　inexplicable　solitude　of　desertion　to　the　first　floor；　where　at　last　he　heard　a　voice　he　knew；　that　of　Cardailhac；　who　was　dictating　names；　and　the　scratching　of　pens　over　paper。　The　clever　stage…manager　of　the　festivities　in　honour　of　the　Bey　was　organizing　with　the　same　ardour　the　funeral　pomps　of　the　Duc　de　Mora。　What　activity！　His　excellency　had　died　during　the　evening；　when　morning　came　already　ten　thousand　letters　were　being　printed；　and　everybody　in　the　house　who　could　hold　a　pen　was　busy　with　the　writing　of　the　addresses。　Without　passing　through　these　improvised　offices；　Jansoulet　reached　the　waiting…room；　ordinarily　so　crowded；　to…day　with　all　its　arm…chairs　empty。　In　the　middle；　on　a　table；　lay　the　hat；　cane；　and　gloves　of　M。　le　Duc；　always　ready　in　case　he　should　go　out　unexpectedly；　so　as　to　save　him　even　the　trouble　of　giving　an　order。　The　objects　that　we　always　wear　keep　about　them　something　of　ourselves。　The　curve　of　the　hat　suggested　that　of　the　mustache；　the　light…coloured　gloves　were　ready　to　grasp　the　supple　and　strong　Chinese　cane；　the　total　effect　was　one　of　life　and　energy；　as　if　the　duke　were　about　to　appear；　stretch　out　his　hand　while　talking；　take　up　those　things；　and　go　out。
  Oh；　no。　M。　le　Duc　was　not　going　out。　Jansoulet　had　but　to　approach　the　half…open　door　of　the　bed…chamber　to　see　on　the　bed；　raised　three　stepsalways　the　platform　even　after　deatha　rigid；　haughty　form；　a　motionless　and　aged　profile；　metamorphosed　by　the　beard's　growth　of　a　night；　quite　gray；　near　the　sloping　pillow；　kneeli