he servants talking aloud in the
fading light.

"I have had enough--my service here is done."

"For my part I shall stay with the duchess."

And those plans, those decisions anticipating the master's death by some
hours, doomed the noble duke even more surely than the Faculty had done.

The Nabob realized then that it was time for him to withdraw, but he
determined first to write his name on the register. He went to the
table and leaned far over in order to see clearly. The page was full. A
blank space was pointed out to him, below a name written in small,
threadlike characters, as if by fingers too stout for the pen, and, when
he had signed, Hemerlingue's name overshadowed his, crushed it,
entangled it in an insidious flourish. Superstitious like the true Latin
that he was, he was impressed by the omen and carried the terror of it
away with him.

Where should he dine? At the club? On Place Vendome? And hear nothing
talked of but this death which engrossed his thoughts! He preferred to
trust to chance, to go straight ahead like all those who are beset by a
persistent idea which they try to escape by walking. It was a warm,
balmy evening. He walked on and on along the quays till he reached the
tree-lined paths of the Cours-la-Reine, then returned to the combination
of freshly-watered streets and odor of fine dust which characterizes
fine evenings in Paris. At that uncertain hour everything was deserted.
Here and there girandoles were lighted for concerts, gas-jets flared
among the foliage. The rattle of plates and glasses from a restaurant
suggested to him the idea of entering.

The robust creature was hungry notwithstanding his anxiety. His dinner
was served under a verandah with walls of glass, lined with foliage and
facing the great porch of the Palais de l'Industrie, where the duke, in
presence of a thousand persons, had saluted him as deputy. The refined
and aristocratic face appeared to his mind's eye in the dark archway,
while at the same time he saw him lying yonder on his white pillow; and,
suddenly, as he stared at the bill of fare the waiter handed him, he
noticed with a sort of stupefaction that it was dated May 20th. So not a
month had passed since the opening of the Salon. It seemed to him as if
it were ten years since that day. Gradually, however, the excellent
repast warmed and comforted his heart. In the passage he heard some of
the waiters talking:

"Is there any news of Mora? It seems he's very