“I am pleased to see you, M. Petrovitch.”
“Monsieur V——!”
I thought he would have lost his senses. His whole countenance changed. He clung to his chair, and his eyes were fixed on me with an expression of panic.
So complete was his collapse that he did not attempt to speak or excuse himself. I saw that he was hardly in a condition to listen to anything I had to say.
“I fear you are unwell, M. Petrovitch. Allow me to offer you a little brandy.”
The wretched man watched me with bewildered looks, as I took a bottle and glasses from a cupboard and helped first him and then myself.
“It is quite wholesome, I assure you.”
As I said the words I raised my own glass to my lips and sipped.
A choking cry escaped from the author of the war. He seized the glass I had set before him and feverishly drained it.