was all. The duke had added no further word.

Jansoulet bowed his head. What had he been hoping? Was it not enough
that at such a moment a man like Mora had given him a thought? He
returned and sat down on his bench, falling back into the stupor which
had been galvanized by one moment of mad hope, and remained until,
without his noticing it, the hall had become nearly deserted. He did not
remark that he was the only and last visitor left, until he heard the
men-servants talking aloud in the waning light of the evening:

"For my part, I've had enough of it. I shall leave service."

"I shall stay on with the duchess."

And these projects, these arrangements some hours in advance of death,
condemned the noble duke still more surely than the faculty.

The Nabob understood then that it was time for him to go, but, first, he
wished to inscribe his name in the visitors' book kept by the porter. He
went 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