"Yes," he said faintly, "let us go home."
"But you are ill! You look as white as a ghost!" cried Joanna, in alarm.
"I had a dinner of herbs—in the liquid form of absinthe," said my master with a clutch at Paragot. "How does it go? Better a dinner of herbs where love is——"
"Ah! Monsieur has not yet gone," said the nurse, hurrying into the room. "Monsieur le Comte begs me to give this to Monsieur."
She held out a letter.
"Monsieur le Comte made me open his despatch box, Madame," she added apologetically.
She left the room. Paragot stood twirling the letter between his fingers. Joanna bade him open it. It might be something important Paragot drew from the envelope half a sheet of note-paper. He looked at it, made a staggering step to the door and fell sprawling prone upon the carpet.
Joanna uttered a little cry of fright, and, as I did, cast herself on her knees beside him. He had fainted. Abstinence from food, drink, his tremendous effort of will towards sobriety, the strain of the interview, had brought him to the verge of the precipice, and it only required the shock of the letter to send him toppling over. We propped his head on cushions and loosened his collar.
"What can we do?" gasped my dear lady.
"I will call the nurse from Monsieur le Comte's room," said I.