“Oh, you’re mad!... What are you talking about: to-morrow?... Sébastiani, another turn!”
“No, no!” yelled Daubrecq. “Stop!”
“Speak!”
“Well, then . . . the paper.... I have hidden the paper....”
But his pain was too great. He raised his head with a last effort, uttered incoherent words, succeeded in twice saying, “Marie.... Marie....” and fell back, exhausted and lifeless.
“Let go at once!” said d’Albufex to Sébastiani. “Hang it all, can we have overdone it?”
But a rapid examination showed him that Daubrecq had only fainted. Thereupon, he himself, worn out with the excitement, dropped on the foot of the bed and, wiping the beads of perspiration from his forehead, stammered:
“Oh, what a dirty business!”
“Perhaps that’s enough for to-day,” said the huntsman, whose rough face betrayed a certain emotion. “We might try again to-morrow or the next day....”
The marquis was silent. One of the sons handed him a flask of brandy. He poured out half a glass and drank it down at a draught: