the worst of it. Paul with his eyes on the wall was
making calculations. D'Athis would be gone and Colette married before
he was even out of bed. Well, that business had failed; he must look out
for something else.

The door was opened, and a great flood of light poured into the
miserable room. How delightful was life and the warm sunshine! Vedrine,
coming in with Freydet, went up to the bed and held out his hand
joyously, saying 'You did give us a fright!' He was really fond of his
young rascal, and cherished him as a work of art. 'Ah, that you did!'
said Freydet, wiping his brow with an air of great relief. His eyes had
seen all his hopes of election to the Academie lying on the ground in
that pool of blood. How could Astier, the father, ever have come out as
the champion of a man connected with such a fatal event? Not but that
Freydet had a warm heart, but the absorbing thought of his candidature
brought his mind, like a compass needle, always round to the same point;
howsoever shaken and turned about, it came back still to the Academic
Pole. And as the wounded man smiled at his friends, feeling a little
foolish at finding himself, for all his cleverness, lying there at full
length, Freydet dilated with admiration on the 'proper' behaviour of the
seconds, whom they had just assisted in framing the report, of Doctor
Aubouis, who had offered to stay with his professional friend, of the
Prince, who had gone off in the victoria and left for Paul his well-hung
carriage, which having only one horse could be brought right up to the
door of the little building. Every one had behaved most properly.

'How he bores one with his proprieties!' said Vedrine, seeing the face
Paul had not been able to help making.

'It really is very odd,' murmured the young fellow in a vague and
wandering voice. So it would be he, and not the other fellow, whose
pale, bloodstained face would be seen by the doctors side through the
window of the brougham as it went slowly home. Well, he had made a mess
of it! Suddenly he sat up, in spite of the doctor's protest, rummaged
in his card-case for a card, and scribbled on it with pencil in a shaky
hand, 'Fate is as faithless as man. I wanted to avenge you, but could
not. Forgive me.' He signed his name, read it over, reflected, read it
again, then fastened up the envelope, which they had found in a dusty
drawer, a nasty scented envelope from some rural stores, and directed it
to the Duchess Padovani. H