He had descended the stairs, passed through the hothouse into the garden, before she could move. She remained leaning against the wall where he had thrown her, listening, her head bent forward, listening with an anguish that was maddening.--But there was no further report. Pierre did not meet either the Prince or his men, for they were occupied in hunting for some traces of the first fugitive. "Ah" she moaned, "he is safe!--If the other has only escaped!" Pierre's terror had taken possession of her. Yes, the unknown visitor at whom the men had shot could be no one but Olivier. She had understood too well the Prince's tone. Her husband had learned that she was with her lover. He had laid a trap for him. Who, then, could have fallen into it instead of Pierre?--For the first time in many years this woman, so broad-minded, so permeated with the spirit of fatalism and nihilism, this woman felt an impulse to appeal to a higher power. She was blinded with terror at what she foresaw if she and Pierre had really brought about the death of the man who had been her lover, of the man who had been Pierre's sole friend; she was so overwhelmed that she fell upon her knees and prayed that this punishment might be spared them. Vain prayer! As fruitless as the mad flight of her guilty accomplice who tore along the road, halting at intervals to cry, "Olivier! Olivier!" He received no reply to his calls. At last he arrived at the hotel. He would soon know whether he was not under the influence of some evil dream. What were his feelings when the porter said in answer to his inquiries:-- "Monsieur du Prat? He went out immediately after you had left, sir!" "Did he ask if I had gone out?" "Yes, sir. I'm surprised that you did not meet him, sir. He went along the same road immediately after you." So his presentiments had not deceived him! Olivier had really followed him. Olivier had been taken by surprise in the garden. Was he dead? Was he wounded? Where was he lying helpless? All night long Hautefeuille wandered about the roads, searching in the ditches, among the hedges, the stones, feeling about on the ground at the foot of the trees. In the morning he was returning, literally mad after his useless researches, when, going toward the hotel by another road, he met two gardeners pushing a handcart. In it was laid a human form. He walked up to it and recognized his friend. Olivier had received two balls in the chest. Upon his face, soiled with the sand of the road, was an expression of infinite sadness. Judging from the place where the gardeners had found him, he must have walked for a quarter of an hour after being wounded. Then his strength had failed him; he had fainted and had died--probably without ever coming to himself again--of a hemorrhage caused by his wounds and the effort he had made.