“Are you walking in your sleep or insane?” asked Marillac, “or do you want me to go to work?” he added, as he saw that his friend had some papers in his hand. “You know very well I never have any ideas when fasting, and that I am stupid until noon.”
“Get up at once!” said Gerfaut, “I must have a talk with you.”
There was something so serious and urgent in Gerfaut’s accent as he said these words, that the artist got up at once and hurriedly dressed himself.
“What is the matter?” he asked, as he put on his dressing-gown, “you look as if the affairs of the nation rested upon you.”
“Put on your coat and boots,” said Octave, “you must go to La Fauconnerie. They are used to seeing you go out early in the morning for your appointments with Reine, and therefore—”
“It is to this shepherdess you would send me!” interrupted the artist, as he began to undress himself; “in that case I will go to bed again. Enough of that!”
“I am to fight with Bergenheim at nine o’clock!” said Gerfaut, in a low voice.
“Stupendous!” exclaimed Marillac, as he jumped back a few steps, and then stood as motionless as a statue. Without wasting any time in unnecessary explanations, his friend gave him a brief account of the night’s events.
“Now,” said he, “I need you; can I count upon your friendship?”
“In life and in death!” exclaimed Marillac, and he pressed his hand with the emotion that the bravest of men feel at the approach of a danger which threatens one who is dear to them.