Stunned, limp as a rag, the marquis lay at the Emperor's feet, his clenched hands slowly relaxing.
The Emperor had not moved.
Scarcely knowing what he did, Jack stooped, drew the revolver from the extended fingers, and laid it on the table. Then, with a fearful glance at the Emperor, he dragged the marquis to the door, opened it with a shove of his foot, and half closed it again.
The aide-de-camp stood there, staring at the prostrate man.
"Here, help me with him to his carriage; he is ill," panted Jack—"lift him!"
Together they carried him out to the terrace, and down the steps to a coupé that stood waiting.
"The marquis is ill," said Jack again; "put him to bed at once. Drive fast."
Before the sound of the wheels died away Jack hastened back to the dining-room. Through the half-opened door he peered, hesitated, turned away, and mounted the stairs slowly to his own chamber.
In the dining-room the lamp still burned dimly. Beside it sat the Emperor, head bent, picking absently at the table-cloth with short, shrunken thumbs.