Duquesnel stayed with him, begging me, however, to go back to the poet’s guests. I returned to the room where the supper had taken place. Groups had been formed, and when I was seen entering I was asked if he was no better.
“The doctor has just arrived and he cannot yet say,” I replied.
“It is indigestion,” said Lafontaine (Ruy Blas), tossing off a glass of liqueur brandy.
“It is cerebral anæmia,” pronounced Tallien (Don Guritan) clumsily, for he was always losing his memory.
Victor Hugo approached and said very simply:
“It is a beautiful kind of death.”
He then took my arm and led me away to the other end of the room, trying to chase my sadness away by gallant and poetical whispers. Some little time passed with this gloom weighing on us, and then Duquesnel returned. He was pale, but had put on the attitude of a man of the world, and was ready to answer all questions.
“Oh, yes, he had just been taken home. It would be nothing, it appeared. He only needed rest for a couple of days. Probably his feet had been cold during the meal.”
“Yes,” put in one of the “Ruy Blas” guests, “there certainly was a fine draught from some chink under the table!”
“Yes,” Duquesnel was just replying to some one who was worrying him. “Yes, no doubt, there was too much heat for his head.”