"Possibly . . . yes . . ." said Waldemar, agreeing.
"It's quite obvious! He is making the most of certain curious coincidences, but he knows nothing; and his story about gold coins and his narcotic are so many inventions! If we lend ourselves to his little game any longer, he'll slip out of your fingers. Your car, Waldemar."
The count gave his orders and returned. Lupin had not woke up. The Emperor, who was looking round the room, said to Waldemar:
"This is the Minerva room, is it not?"
"Yes, Sire."
"But then why is there an 'N' in two places?"
There were, in fact, two "N's," one over the chimneypiece, the other over an old dilapidated clock fitted into the wall and displaying a complicated set of works, with weights hanging lifeless at the end of their cords.
"The two 'N's' . . ." said Waldemar.
The Emperor did not listen to the answer. Lupin had moved again, opening his eyes and uttering indistinct syllables. He stood up, walked across the room and fell down from sheer weakness.
Then came the struggle, the desperate struggle of his brain, his nerves, his will against that hideous, paralyzing torpor, the struggle of a dying man against death, the struggle of life against extinction. And the sight was one of infinite sadness.