"Any attacks?" asked O'Neill.
"One, sir, but I 'ad the amyl under 'is nose at the first gasp, an' 'e came round all right."
"Good," said O'Neill. "You go and get some supper now, Truelove. I'll attend to everything till you get back."
The corporal bowed and went forthwith. O'Neill set the capsules out on the table to be easily accessible, and joined Buscarlet by the great fireplace at the end of the room, whence he could keep watch on the still profile that showed against the gold of the screen. From without there came the blurred noises of the Paris street, mingled and blended in a single hum, as though life were laying siege to that quiet chamber.
Buscarlet was eager to talk. He was a speciously amiable little man, blonde and plump, a creature of easy emotions, prone to panic and tears.
"Ah, he talked indeed!" he said, as soon as O'Neill was seated. "At first I thought: 'This is delirium. He is returning to the age of his innocence.' But his eyes, as he looked at me, were wise and serious. My friend, it gave me a shock."
"What did he talk about?" asked O'Neill.
Buscarlet coughed. "Of his wife," he answered. "Fancy it!"
"His wife? Why, is he married?" demanded O'Neill in astonishment.
Buscarlet nodded two or three times. "Yes," he replied; "that is one of the things that has happened to him. One might have guessed it, hein?—a life like that! Ah, my friend, there is one who has put out his hours at usury. What memories he must have!"