In another moment he was cowering on his knees before me.
“You, of all men, mustn't blaspheme. You whom I love like my master. You whom the divine lady loves. I can't bear it!” He continued to gibber unintelligibly.
He was stark mad. There was no question of it. For a moment I stood irresolute. Then I lifted him to his feet and patted his head soothingly.
“Never mind,” said I. “I was wrong. It was a beautiful horse. There never was such a horse in the world. If I had a picture of him I would hang it up on the wall over my bed.”
“Would you?” he cried joyfully. “Then I will give you one.”
He trotted over to the bundle of papers that reposed in his hat on the floor, searched through them, and to my dismay handed me a faded, unmounted, and rather torn and crumpled photograph of the wonderful horse.
“There!” said he.
“I could not rob you of it,” I protested.
“It will be my joy to know that you have it—that it is hanging over your bed. See—have you a pin? I myself will fix it for you.”
While he was searching my table for pins the chasseur of the hotel came with a message from Madame Brandt. Would Monsieur come at once to Madame in her private room?