poplexy. A
relaxation of every fibre of his being seemed to give him over to death,
to prepare his body for the rigidity of the corpse; and that in the most
dismal place on earth, chaos lighted by a dark lantern, where all the
debris of plays that had been performed, gilded furniture, hangings with
gorgeous fringe, carriages, strong boxes, card-tables, discarded flights
of stairs and banisters, were heaped together pell-mell under the dust,
among ropes and pulleys, a wilderness of damaged, broken, demolished,
cast-off stage properties. Bernard Jansoulet, as he lay amid that
wreckage, his shirt torn away from his chest, at once bleeding and
bloodless, was the typical shipwrecked victim of life, bruised and cast
ashore with the pitiable debris of his artificial splendor broken and
scattered by the Parisian whirlpool. Paul, broken-hearted, gazed sadly
at that face with its short nose, retaining in its inert condition the
wrathful yet kindly expression of an inoffensive creature who tried to
defend himself before dying, but had no time to bite. He blamed himself
for his inability to serve him to any useful purpose. What had become of
that fine project of his of leading Jansoulet through the quagmires, of
saving him from ambuscades? All that he had been able to do was to
rescue a few millions, and even those came too late.

* * * * *

The windows were opened on the balcony overlooking the boulevard, then
at its full tide of noise and animation, and blazing with light. The
theatre was surrounded with rows of gas-jets, a circle of flame lighting
up the most obscure recesses where flickering lanterns gleamed like
stars travelling through the dark sky. The play was done. The audience
was leaving the theatre. The dark throng moved in a compact mass down
the steps and scattered to right and left along the white sidewalks, to
spread through the city the news of a great success and the name of an
unknown author, who would be illustrious and famous on the morrow. A
most enjoyable evening, causing the restaurant windows to blaze with
delight and the streets to be filled with long lines of belated
carriages. That holiday uproar, of which the poor Nabob had been so fond
and which was well adapted to the giddy whirl of his existence, aroused
him for a second. His lips moved, and his staring eyes, turned toward de
Gery, assumed in presence of death a sorrowful, imploring, rebellious
expression, as if to cal