“Well?” exclaimed M. de Puymandour.
“Oh, sir,” cried the old man, “this is too horrible; my poor master will certainly die.”
“But I do not know what is the matter with him; no one has told me anything, in fact.”
“It was terribly sudden,” answered the man. “It was about this time the day before yesterday that the Duke was alone with M. Norbert in the dining-room. All at once we heard a great outcry. We ran in and saw my poor master lying senseless on the ground, his face purple and distorted.”
“He must have had a fit of apoplexy.”
“Not exactly; the doctor called it a rush of blood to the brain; at least, I think that is what he said, and he added that the reason he did not die on the spot was because in falling he had cut open his head against the oaken sideboard, and the wound bled profusely. We carried him up to his bed; he showed no signs of life, and now——”
“Well, how is he now?”
“No one dare give an opinion; my poor master is quite unconscious, and should he recover—and I do not think for a moment that he will—the doctor says his mind will have entirely gone.”
“Horrible! Too horrible! And a man of such intellectual power, too. I shall not ask you to let me look at him, for I could do no good, and the sight would upset me. But can I not see M. Norbert?”
“Pray, do not attempt to do so, sir.”