“When I rose to my feet and started to reply, Paul de St. Victor, who had been awaiting an opportunity to vent his spite, brought down his glass so violently that it was broken. I handed him mine.
“‘Use this, monsieur,’ I said to him. ‘You would not look natural without a glass in your hand.’
“The table laughed, and I was given courage to continue. I was in the middle of a little eulogy of my co-workers in the piece, when my gaze suddenly fell on the face of Chilly, and I stopped short.
“The little director’s face was ashen, where a moment before it had been red and perspiring. His eyes were wide open and staring at me, with a glassy look about them that frightened me.
“‘Chilly! Mon ami!’ I cried.
“His eyes met mine without a shade of expression, though his mouth opened and shut, as if he was trying to speak.
“‘Chilly!’ I cried, terror-stricken, and everyone at the table rose to their feet. I rushed to his side and, kneeling, put my arms about him as he sat in his chair. ‘Tell me, what is the matter?’ I asked.
“‘Somebody is holding me!’ he muttered, in a thick voice. ‘I cannot move!’
“‘It is the heat; he has had a little stroke; it is nothing!’ said Victor Hugo, with authority.
“Chilly was carried into one of the small dining-rooms, and laid on a couch. Victor Hugo and Duquesnel stood at the door, as guards, to keep the curious away. To everyone they declared that it was nothing and that Chilly would be all right in a few moments.