Bertrand started a little at his touch, and Max had a glimpse of his tortured face as he glanced up. "Fermez la porte!" he said, in a choked whisper.
The door was already shut. Max wheeled and turned the key. "Now!" he said.
He stooped over the Frenchman, and with the utmost care lifted him back on to the pillows, unfastened his collar, then turned to fling the windows as wide as they would go. The night air, fragrant with rain, blew in, rustling the curtains. Bertrand turned his face towards it instinctively. His lips were blue; they worked painfully, as if, between his gasping, he were still trying to speak.
"Keep still!" Max said.
He mixed some brandy and water, and returning, slipped his arm under the pillow. "Don't exert yourself," he said. "I'll do it all."
Very steadily he held the glass for Bertrand to drink. He could take but very little at a time, so agonized was his struggle for breath. Max waited through each pause, closely watching the drawn face, never missing his opportunity. And gradually that little took effect. The anguish died out of Bertrand's eyes, and he lay still.
Max slipped his arm from beneath the pillow and stood up. "Don't move," he said. "You're getting better."
"You—will stay—with me?" whispered Bertrand.
"Yes."
He drew up a chair, and sat down, took the Frenchman's wrist between his fingers, and so remained for a long time.