"Quick, quick!" he said, when I came near. "He is speaking your name."
At the first glance at the mass of bleeding flesh that lay on one of the tiers, between two rows of seats, I perceived that there was no hope and that it was a miracle that this corpse was still breathing. Still it was uttering my name. I caught the syllables as I stooped over the face mauled beyond recognition and, speaking slowly and distinctly, I said:
"It's I, Massignac, it's Victorien Beaugrand. What have you to say to me?"
He managed to lift his eyelids, looked at me with a dim eye which closed again immediately and stammered:
"A letter . . . a letter . . . sewn in the lining. . . ."
I felt the rags of cloth which remained of his jacket. Massignac had done well to sew up the letter, for all the other papers had left his pocket. I at once read my name on the envelope.
"Open it . . . open it," he said, in a whisper.
I tore open the envelope. There were only a few lines scribbled in a large hand across the sheet of paper, a few lines of which I took the time to read only the first, which said:
"Bérangère knows the formula."
"Bérangère!" I exclaimed. "But where is she? Do you know?"