He started to walk, but with great pain, for the reaction had come, and his nerves and muscles, so violently strained, had now begun to relax; the intense heat caused by his struggling and fast running was replaced by a cold perspiration, aching limbs, and chattering teeth. His hip and shoulder pained him almost beyond endurance. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding, but the coagulated blood around his eyes blinded him.
After a painful walk he reached his door at ten o’clock.
The old valet who admitted him started back terrified.
“Good heavens, monsieur! what is the matter?”
“Silence!” said Gaston in the brief, compressed tone always inspired by imminent danger, “silence! where is my father?”
“M. the marquis is in his room with M. Louis. He has had a sudden attack of the gout, and cannot put his foot to the ground; but you, monsieur——”
Gaston did not stop to listen further. He hurried to his father’s room.
The old marquis, who was playing backgammon with Louis, dropped his dice-box with a cry of horror, when he looked up and saw his eldest son standing before him covered with blood.
“What is the matter? what have you been doing, Gaston?”
“I have come to embrace you for the last time, father, and to ask for assistance to escape abroad.”