memory in the darkness of the sky, while he could
see it also as it lay over yonder on the funereal whiteness of the
pillow; and suddenly, as he ran his eye over the bill of fare presented
to him by the waiter, he noticed with stupefaction that it bore the date
of the 20th of May. So a month had not elapsed since the opening of the
exhibition. It seemed to him like ten years ago. Gradually, however, the
warmth of the meal cheered him. In the corridor he could hear waiters
talking:

"Has anybody heard news of Mora? It appears he is very ill."

"Nonsense! He will get over it, you will see. Men like him get all the
luck."

And so deeply is hope implanted in the human soul, that, despite what
Jansoulet had himself seen and heard, these few words, helped by two
bottles of burgundy and a few glasses of cognac, sufficed to restore
his courage. After all, people had been known to recover from illnesses
quite as desperate. Doctors often exaggerate the ill in order to get
more credit afterward for curing it. "Suppose I called to inquire." He
made his way back towards the house, full of illusion, trusting to that
chance which had served him so many times in his life. And indeed the
aspect of the princely abode had something about it to fortify his
hope. It presented the reassuring and tranquil appearance of ordinary
evenings, from the avenue with its lights at long intervals, majestic
and deserted, to the steps where stood waiting a huge carriage of
old-fashioned shape.

In the antechamber, peaceful also, two enormous lamps were burning. A
footman slept in a corner; the porter was reading before the fireplace.
He looked at the new arrival over his spectacles, made no remark, and
Jansoulet dared ask no question. Piles of newspapers lying on the table
in their wrappers, addressed to the duke, seemed to have been thrown
there as useless. The Nabob took up one of them, opened it, and tried
to read, but quick and gliding steps, a muttered chanting, made him lift
his eyes, and he saw a white-haired and bent old man, decked out in lace
as though he had been an altar, who was praying aloud as he departed
with a long priestly stride, his ample red cassock spreading in a train
over the carpet. It was the Archbishop of Paris, accompanied by two
assistants. The vision, with its murmur as of an icy north wind,
passed quickly before Jansoulet, plunged into the great carriage and
disappeared, carrying away with it his last hope.

"Doing th