“Yes,” added another of the guests, “our heads were nearly on fire with that wretched gas.”
I could see the moment arriving when Victor Hugo would be reproached by all of his guests for the cold, the heat, the food, and the wine of his banquet. All these imbecile remarks got on Duquesnel’s nerves. He shrugged his shoulders, and drawing me away from the crowd said:
“It’s all over with him.”
I had had a presentiment of this, but the certainty of it now caused me intense grief.
“I want to go,” I said to Duquesnel. “Would you kindly tell some one to ask for my carriage?”
I moved toward the small drawing-room which served as a cloak room for our wraps, and there old Mme. Lambquin knocked up against me. Slightly intoxicated by the heat and the wine, she was waltzing with Tallien.
“Ah! I beg your pardon, little Madonna,” she said, “I nearly knocked you over.”
I pulled her toward me and, without reflecting, whispered to her, “Don’t dance any more, Mamma Lambquin, Chilly is dying.” She was purple, but her face turned as white as chalk. Her teeth began to chatter, but she did not utter a word.
“Oh, my dear Lambquin,” I murmured, “I did not know I should make you so wretched!”
But she was not listening to me any longer. She was putting on her cloak.