xperience. As the
physician and the justice of the peace traversed the court-yard,
this house, usually so gay and hospitable, presented a mournful
aspect. Lights were seen coming and going in the upper story.
Mlle. Lucile, the mayor's youngest daughter, had had a nervous
attack, and was being tended. A young girl, who served as Laurence's
maid, was seated in the vestibule, on the lower stair, weeping
bitterly. Several domestics were there also, frightened, motionless,
not knowing what to do in all this fright. The drawing-room door
was wide open; the room was dimly lighted by two candles; Mme.
Courtois lay rather than sat in a large arm-chair near the fireplace.
Her husband was reclining on a lounge near the windows at the rear
of the apartment. They had taken off his coat and had torn away
his shirt-sleeves and flannel vest, when he was to be bled. There
were strips of cotton wrapped about his naked arms. A small man,
habited like a well-to-do Parisian artisan, stood near the door,
with an embarrassed expression of countenance. It was Robelot, who
had remained, lest any new exigency for his services should arise.

The entrance of his friend startled M. Courtois from the sad stupor
into which he had been plunged. He got up and staggered into the
arms of the worthy Plantat, saying, in a broken voice:

"Ah, my friend, I am most miserable--most wretched!"

The poor mayor was so changed as scarcely to be recognizable. He
was no longer the happy man of the world, with smiling face, firm
look, the pride of which betrayed plainly his self-importance and
prosperity. In a few hours he had grown twenty years older. He
was broken, overwhelmed; his thoughts wandered in a sea of
bitterness. He could only repeat, vacantly, again and again:

"Wretched! most wretched!"

M. Plantat was the right sort of a friend for such a time. He led
M. Courtois back to the sofa and sat down beside him, and taking
his hand in his own, forced him to calm his grief. He recalled to
him that his wife, the companion of his life, remained to him, to
mourn the dear departed with him. Had he not another daughter to
cherish? But the poor man was in no state to listen to all this.

"Ah, my friend," said he shuddering, "you do not know all! If she
had died here, in the midst of us, comforted by our tender care,
my despair would be great; but nothing compared with that which
now tortures me. If you only knew--"

M. Plantat rose, as if terrified by what h