Every one immediately surrounded the unfortunate M. de Merteuil. Not daring to go near him, so much did I dread such a sight, I turned to where I had seen Madame de Pënâfiel. Her carriage had disappeared.
Did she leave before or after this horrible accident?
Soon this dreadful murmur, "He is dead!" went through the throng.
CHAPTER XIII
THE OPÉRA
M. de Cernay having invited me to fill a vacant seat in a box at the Opéra, which he and Lord Falmouth leased together, I was glad to accept, and went there the very night of this unfortunate race, which, by the way, happened on a Friday.
As I ascended the staircase, I was accosted by a certain M. de Pommerive, who was an amusing sort of parasite in good society. He was from fifty to sixty years old. He had more curiosity and malice than any man I ever knew, and, besides, was the greatest gossip and liar that you can imagine.
"Well," said he, as he joined me with an air of great consternation, "do you know what has happened? That unfortunate M. de Merteuil is dead! Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what a dreadful misfortune! I have just been dining with Count ——; I can't remember a single thing I have eaten, I was so overcome!"
"It was a frightful accident!"
"Frightful, frightful, frightful! But what is worse still, is the cause of the challenge. You know what people say?"