The evening shadows were relieved only by the glimmer of the candle, but I gave no more than a passing glance at the wretched room. Somehow I had felt convinced almost from the first that Pillot was telling the truth, and now the proof was before me.
The dwarf, who had placed the candle on the table, was bending over a figure close by. It was my cousin, wrapped in an old dressing-gown and seated in a deep arm-chair. He looked wasted and white, his mouth was drawn at the corners, his eyes burned deep in their sockets with a red glow, I could almost see through the thin white hands that lay loosely on his lap.
Pillot, as I have mentioned, bent over him, and called softly, "Monsieur, monsieur, your cousin has come; I have fetched your cousin."
"Henri!" I cried—for the dying man apparently took no notice—"I am your cousin, your cousin Albert. Do you not wish to speak to me?"
There was a faint gleam of recognition in his eyes, and it appeared as if he were trying to brace himself; then he extended one hand, and said quietly, "Albert!"
I urged him to let me send for a skilful surgeon, but he shook his head impatiently, saying, "No, no, he could do nothing. Pillot has been my doctor and nurse. Good little man!"
One could perceive that he was dying, and I would not disturb him further, though the dwarf wished to carry him to his bed.
Presently he looked at me with a faint smile whispering, "The elder branch will lead again. It is well; you are a better De Lalande than I. At one time I hoped we might have been friends, but you had chosen your part."
"We can be friends yet."
"No, no; it is too late. What I have done I have done; but there is one matter pressing on my mind. Will you forgive me for—for——"