She entered.
‘Where? What is it?’ she inquired.
‘He is in the bedroom—here.’
We both spoke breathlessly, hurrying to the bedroom, after I had fetched the lamp.
‘Wounded? He has done himself harm? Ah!’
‘No,’ I said, ‘not that.’
And I explained to her that Diaz had taken at least six doses of my strong solution of trional.
I seized the lamp and held it aloft over the form of the sleeper, which lay on its side cross-wise, the feet projecting a little over the edge of the bed, the head bent forward and missing the pillow, the arms stretched out in front—the very figure of abandoned and perfect unconsciousness. And the girl and I stared at Diaz, our shoulders touching, in the kennel.
‘He must be made to walk about,’ I said. ‘You would be extremely kind to help me.’
‘No, madame,’ she replied. ‘He will be very well like that. When one is alcoholic, one cannot poison one’s self; it is impossible. All the doctors will tell you as much. Your friend will sleep for twenty hours—twenty-four hours—and he will waken himself quite re-established.’