Near the bed where they had laid Cyprien, still inanimate, Schleifmann wrote feverishly.
“Here!” he told the concierge, who was finishing putting the patien clothes in order, “when you go to the drug-store, you will please send this telegram to M. Eusèbe Raindal, the brother of M. Raindal.”
“M. Eusèbe Raindal!” the concierge protested. “But he is in Paris, monsieur!... He called this morning, just after M. Cyprien had gone, and he told me to inform his brother that he would come again this afternoon.”
“Ah!” said Schleifmann, surprised. “Very well, then; no telegram.... Go straight to the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs! Listen, do frighten the poor man.... Tell him that his brother is ill.”
“Yes, yes! Monsieur may rest assured.... l tell him that as he ought to be told.”
Nevertheless, M. Raindal was stammering with emotion when, half an hour later, he entered the room.
“What? What?” he asked, forgetting to salute Schleifmann. “Cyprien is ill ... gravely?”
“You can see for yourself, monsieur!” the Galician replied. “A stroke!... He fell in the street. My own physician, Doctor Chesnard, has just been here and suggests that it is an embolism. He is coming again to-night. Cyprien had gambled in mining stock and lost enormous sums.”
He added more details. The master interrupted him with distressed exclamations.
“Is it possible!... Had I but known!... Oh! poor fellow!... poor fellow!... Why did he hide it from me?”