He became thoughtful, and then suddenly felt himself growing weak, almost fainting. The loss of blood began to have effect and he hastened to his bed. Even his curiosity ebbed away. He had not the strength to turn the leaves of the manuscript. Instinct moved him to place it and the casket beneath the mattress.
Hardly had he stretched his limbs, when a fever overcame him. A disturbed sleep, in which incoherent and fantastic ideas surged, oppressed his brain. The extraordinary events of the previous night were grotesquely reproduced. Amélie, in her white dress, broke through the garden trellis and threw herself into his arms, imploring him to carry her away from London; the Duchess de Rousillon, erect and haughty, barred the passage to Naundorff's door; Naundorff, himself, lay upon the pavement of the square, gashed and bloody; the streets were red torrents rushing toward the Thames, and he, René, battled for his life in the river of blood.
With parched throat and tongue, he tossed through the night, to welcome, at last, the dawn gleaming through his window curtains. He vainly tried to raise himself and so lay helplessly until the entry of a servant, whom he immediately dispatched for a doctor. The doctor prescribed quiet and rest, forbidding his patient to leave his bed during four days. On the fifth, with clearer head and diminished thirst, René closed his eyes in a sweet sleep.
During the morning a travelling coach drew up before the Hotel upon whose front seat valises and handsome wallets bore a count's heraldric blazonry. A valet de chambre, thickset and awkward, preceded an elegant gentleman whose dress harmonized with the sumptuous equipage. His cloak and gray felt hat eminently merited the adjective fashionable which was an English term then beginning to be applied in France to whatever was distinguished by good taste.
"Attend the gentleman! Bring in his baggage!" called out the host, whose patrons consisted usually of impecunious Scotch lairds and shabby Glasgow tradesmen, and rarely numbered such distinguished guests as the invalid French marquis and this newly arrived nobleman so showy and immaculate, bearing no marks of his recent journey. The irreproachable traveler ordered a suite. The valet superintended the conveying of the baggage, his purple face and red whiskers gleaming above the folds of an ample cravat. As soon as the master and servant were alone in the count's sleeping chamber, they drew close together and the valet whispered:
"We have caught the bird in his cage. What are we to do now?"
"Find out all that has happened to the precious Marquis. Show some brains in this business since you played the fool in the square." And, as he concluded this speech, Volpetti removed his hat, arranged his Chateaubriand tuft of hair, viewed himself in the mirror and extracted from his pockets a variety of toilet appurtenances,—files, pincers, scissors, etc., which doubtless pertained to the collection which Alberto Serra was to pass through Gibraltar.
The valet was absent about twenty minutes, during which he introduced himself in the kitchen by the name of Brosseur and began a chat with the cook. He was holding in one hand a steaming jug when his master called out in an infuriated tone:
"Well, rascal, how long am I to wait? Do you want your head broken?"
Brosseur hurried to Volpetti's chamber, locked the door, set down the jug and gleefully rubbed his hands together, saying: