se, and taking his
hand, she tenderly asked: "You hear me, do you not, monsieur? Do you
understand me?"

His lips moved; but only a hollow, rattling sound, which was absolutely
unintelligible, came from his throat. Still, he understood her; as
it was easy to see by his gestures--despairing and painful ones, for
paralysis had not released its hold on its victim, and it was only with
great difficulty that he could slightly move his right arm. He evidently
desired something. But what?

They mentioned the different articles in the room--everything indeed
that they could think of. But in vain, until the housekeeper suddenly
exclaimed: "He wishes to write."

That was, indeed, what he desired. With the hand that was comparatively
free, with the hoarse rattle that was his only voice, M. de Chalusse
answered, "Yes, yes!" and his eyes even turned to Madame Leon with an
expression of joy and gratitude. They raised him on his pillows, and
brought him a small writing-desk, with some paper, and a pen that
had been dipped in ink. But like those around him, he had himself
over-estimated his strength; if he could move his hand, he could not
CONTROL its movements. After a terrible effort and intense suffering,
however, he succeeded in tracing a few words, the meaning of which it
was impossible to understand. It was only with the greatest
difficulty that these words could be deciphered--"My entire
fortune--give--friends--against----" This signified nothing.

In despair, he dropped the pen, and his glance and his hand turned to
that part of the room opposite his bed. "Monsieur means his escritoire,
perhaps?"

"Yes, yes," the sick man hoarsely answered.

"Perhaps the count wishes that it should be opened?"

"Yes, yes!" was the reply again.

"My God!" exclaimed Mademoiselle Marguerite, with a gesture of despair;
"what have I done? I have broken the key. I feared the responsibility
which would fall upon us all."

The expression of the count's face had become absolutely frightful.
It indicated utter discouragement, the most bitter suffering, the most
horrible despair. His soul was writhing in a body from which life had
fled. Intelligence, mind, and will were fast bound in a corpse which
they could not electrify. The consciousness of his own powerlessness
caused him a paroxysm of frantic rage; his hands clinched, the veins in
his throat swelled, his eyes almost started from their sockets, and in
a harsh, shrill voice that had nothin