ht for me--some mild opiate which will always
keep me in a somnolent condition, a draught that will not be injurious
although taken constantly."

"Nothing is easier," the young doctor replied; "but you will have to
keep on your feet for a few hours daily, at any rate, so as to take your
food."

"A few hours!" Raphael broke in; "no, no! I only wish to be out of bed
for an hour at most."

"What is your object?" inquired Bianchon.

"To sleep; for so one keeps alive, at any rate," the patient answered.
"Let no one come in, not even Mlle. Pauline de Wistchnau!" he added to
Jonathan, as the doctor was writing out his prescription.

"Well, M. Horace, is there any hope?" the old servant asked, going as
far as the flight of steps before the door, with the young doctor.

"He may live for some time yet, or he may die to-night. The chances of
life and death are evenly balanced in his case. I can't understand it
at all," said the doctor, with a doubtful gesture. "His mind ought to be
diverted."

"Diverted! Ah, sir, you don't know him! He killed a man the other day
without a word!--Nothing can divert him!"

For some days Raphael lay plunged in the torpor of this artificial
sleep. Thanks to the material power that opium exerts over the
immaterial part of us, this man with the powerful and active imagination
reduced himself to the level of those sluggish forms of animal life that
lurk in the depths of forests, and take the form of vegetable refuse,
never stirring from their place to catch their easy prey. He had
darkened the very sun in heaven; the daylight never entered his room.
About eight o'clock in the evening he would leave his bed, with no very
clear consciousness of his own existence; he would satisfy the claims
of hunger and return to bed immediately. One dull blighted hour after
another only brought confused pictures and appearances before him, and
lights and shadows against a background of darkness. He lay buried in
deep silence; movement and intelligence were completely annihilated for
him. He woke later than usual one evening, and found that his dinner was
not ready. He rang for Jonathan.

"You can go," he said. "I have made you rich; you shall be happy in
your old age; but I will not let you muddle away my life any longer.
Miserable wretch! I am hungry--where is my dinner? How is it?--Answer
me!"

A satisfied smile stole over Jonathan's face. He took a candle that
lit up the great dark rooms of the mansion wi