sick."

"Nonsense! He'll pull through. Such fellows as he are the only ones who
have any luck."

Hope is anchored so firmly to the human entrails that, despite what
Jansoulet had seen and heard, those few words, assisted by two bottles
of burgundy and divers _petits verres_ sufficed to restore his courage.
After all, people had been known to recover when they were as far gone.
Doctors often exaggerate the danger in order to gain more credit for
averting it. "Suppose I go and see?" He returned to the hotel de Mora,
full of illusions, appealing to the luck that had stood him in good
stead so many times in his life. And in truth there was something in the
appearance of the princely abode to justify his hope. It wore the
tranquil, reassuring aspect of ordinary evenings, from the avenue with
lights burning at equal intervals, to the main doorway, at which an
enormous carriage of antique shape was waiting.

In the reception-room, where there were no signs of excitement, two
great lamps were burning. A footman was asleep in a corner, the usher
was reading in front of the fire. He glanced at the new arrival over his
spectacles, but said nothing to him, and Jansoulet dared ask no
questions. Piles of newspapers lay on the table in wrappers addressed to
the duke, apparently tossed there as useless. The Nabob opened one and
tried to read; but a rapid, gliding step, a sing-song murmuring made him
raise his eyes, and he saw a white-haired, stooping old man, decked out
with finery like an altar, who was praying as he walked with long
priest-like strides, his red cassock spread out like a train over the
carpet. It was the Archbishop of Paris, accompanied by two assistants.
The vision with its murmur as of an icy wind passed swiftly before
Jansoulet, was engulfed by the great chariot and disappeared, carrying
away his last hope.

"A question of propriety, my dear fellow," said Monpavon, suddenly
appearing at his side. "Mora is an epicurean, brought up in the ideas of
What's-his-name--Thingamy--you know whom I mean! Eighteenth century. But
it's very bad for the masses, if a man in his position--ps--ps--ps--Ah!
he was head and shoulders above all of us--ps--ps--irreproachable
breeding."

"So, it's all over, is it?" said Jansoulet desperately. "There's no more
hope?"

Monpavon motioned to him to listen. A carriage rumbled heavily along the
avenue on the quay. The bell rang several times in quick succession.
The marquis counted alo