'How heavy my head is!' he muttered. 'What has happened to me?... Let me see!... Wait.... Ah ... yes ... that's it!'
At a sign from the doctor, the superintendent had stationed himself beside the bed, behind the young painter.
Keeping a finger on his patient's pulse, the doctor asked him, in a fatherly fashion, to tell him all about it.
'It is like this,' replied Jacques Dollon.... 'Yesterday evening I was sitting in my arm-chair reading. It was getting late. I had been working hard.... I was tired.... All of a sudden I was surrounded by masked men, clothed in long black garments: they flung themselves on me. Before I could make a movement I was gagged, bound with cords.... I felt something pointed driven into my leg—into my arm.... Then an overpowering drowsiness overcame me, the strangest visions passed before my eyes; I lost consciousness rapidly.... I wanted to move, to cry out ... in vain ... there was no strength in me ... powerless ... and that's all!'
'Is there nothing more?' asked the doctor.
After a minute's reflection Jacques answered:
'That is all.'
He now seemed fully awake. He moved: the movement was evidently painful: 'It hurts,' he said, instinctively putting his hand on his left thigh.
'Let us see what is wrong,' said the doctor, and was preparing to examine the place when a voice from the studio called:
'Monsieur!'