Towards noon a second letter arrived:
"Let us once more revive our old friendship. I have always respected you, and, in spite of your error, I am convinced that you have behaved like a man of honour. Let us bury the past. Come back to me as a brother, and the matter will be forgotten."
The pathetic simplicity, the perfect confidence of the man touched me; in my reply I mentioned my misgivings, and begged him not to play with fire, but leave me in future unmolested.
At three o'clock in the afternoon I received a last communication: the Baroness was dying; the doctor had just left her; she had asked for me. The Baron entreated me not to refuse her request, and I went. Poor me!
I entered. The room smelt of chloroform. The Baron received me with great agitation and tears in his eyes.
"What's the matter?" I asked, with the calmness of a doctor.
"I don't know. But she has been at death's door."
"And the doctor, what did he say?"
"He shook his head and said it was not a case for him."
"Has he given her a prescription?"