doubt it.”
His companions were evidently about to tell him all they knew, or rather all they thought they knew, when the front-door bell rang vigorously.
“There he comes!” exclaimed the concierge; “but he’s in too much of a hurry; hell have to wait awhile.”
He sullenly pulled the cord, however; the heavy door swayed on its hinges, and a cab-driver, breathless and hatless, burst into the room, crying, “Help! help!”
The servants sprang to their feet.
“Make haste!” continued the driver. “I was bringing a gentleman here—you must know him. He’s outside, in my vehicle——”
Without pausing to listen any longer, the servants rushed out, and the driver’s incoherent explanation at once became intelligible. At the bottom of the cab, a roomy four-wheeler, a man was lying all of a heap, speechless and motionless. He must have fallen forward, face downward, and owing to the jolting of the vehicle his head had slipped under the front seat.
“Poor devil!” muttered M. Casimir, “he must have had a stroke of apoplexy.” The valet was peering into the vehicle as he spoke, and his comrades were approaching, when suddenly he drew back, uttering a cry of horror. “Ah, my God! it is the count!”
Whenever there is an accident in Paris, a throng of inquisitive spectators seems to spring up from the very pavement, and indeed more than fifty persons had already congregated round about the vehicle. This circumstance restored M. Casimir’s composure; or, at least, some portion of it. “You must drive into the courtyard,” he said, addressing the cabman. “M. Bourigeau, open the gate, if you please.” And then, turning to another servant, he added:
“And you must make haste and fetch a physician—no matter who. Run to the nearest doctor, and don’t return until you bring one with you.”
The concierge had opened the gate, but the driver had disappeared; they called him, and on receiving no reply the valet seized the reins and skilfully guided the cab through the gateway.
Having escaped the scrutiny of the crowd, it now
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