"I do."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, good-bye."
"Good-bye."
And the postman left, hoping with all his heart that Choron was wounded less dangerously than he thought; for he could hardly believe a man who could preserve his presence of mind with such coolness could be mortally hurt.
No one ever knew what passed after the postman left him. No human creature helped Choron in that dark hour of his mortal agony—he struggled alone with death.
He had probably drunk as much of the wine out of the two bottles as was missing; then he had tried to raise himself on his bed, but his strength failed him, and he fell on the floor, clutching hold of the bed-clothes, in which position he was when we found him dead.
A piece of paper was on the table: it was the same the postman had seen him writing upon when he returned from the wine cellar.