He might die to-night! Might die to-night! Well! Why not? Why might he not die to-night? The doctor--the leading one from Paris--should visit him. Yes, he should do that. He knew that doctor; he had seen him called in before to gouty, or paralysed, or dropsical men and women whose servant he himself had once been. And he knew the fashionable physician's formula--the cheering words, accompanied, however, by a slightly doubting phrase; the safe-guarding of his own reputation by a hint to others that--"all the same"--"nevertheless"--"it might be--he could not say. If there were any relatives they should be warned--not alarmed, oh, no! only warned," and so forth. Well! the doctor should come to see the Duke. Doubtless he would say some such thing before himself and the landlord, who, he would take care, should also be in the room. That would be sufficient. If the Duke did die to-night suddenly, as he might very well do--as he would do--why then he, Lolive, was safe. The doctor's words would have saved him.
He was sure now that Monsieur would die to-night. Quite sure. So sure that he knew nothing could save the Duke. He would die to-night; he even knew the time it would happen; between one and two of the clock, when every soul in Eaux St. Fer would be wrapped in sleep, even to the servants. Then, about that hour--perhaps nearer two than one--the Duke would die. And the cabaret, the disguised gambling hell, would be his in a month's----
"Lolive," uttered a voice from behind him. "Lolive!"
The man started; stopped in what he was doing; then dropped a dressing case with almost a crash on to the shelf of a wardrobe, in which he was placing the box and its contents, and withdrew his own head from the inside of the great bureau. He scarcely dared, however, to turn that head round to the spot whence the voice issued, since he knew that he was white to the lips; since he felt that he was trembling a little. Yet--he must do it--it had to be done--it was his master's voice.
Therefore he turned, gazing with startled eyes at Desparre who was now sitting up more firmly in his chair, and saw that some change had come to him, that he had regained speech as well as sense, that he would not die, could not by any chance be made to die, that night. The possession of the cabaret was as far off as ever now!
"Ah, Monsieur, the Virgin be praised," he exclaimed fawningly and with a smile of satisfaction, as he ran forward to where Desparre sat, still rigid, though not so rigid as before. "Monsieur is better. What happiness! Monsieur will go to bed now."
While, even as he spoke, he regained courage; confidence. Sick men had died before now in their beds, in their sleep. Such things had been often heard of: they might--would, doubtless--be heard of again.
His master spoke once more, the voice, harsh, bitter, raucous, yet distinct.
"Malotru!" Desparre said, while, as he did so, his eyes gleamed dully at the other, "you thought I was dead, or dying. Eh, dog? Well! it is not so. Go--descend at once. Order my travelling carriage. We depart to-night, in an hour--for--Marseilles."
"For Marseilles?"