When he returned to the chateau, his face had resumed its usual calm expression. The most observing person would hardly have noticed any change in his looks. The dining-room had been abandoned at last. The victorious and the vanquished had retired to their rooms. First of all, he went up to the artist’s apartment, so that no singularity in his conduct should attract attention, for, as master of the house, a visit to one of his guests who had fallen dead, or nearly so, at his own table was a positive duty. The attentions lavished upon Marillac by his friend had removed the danger which might have resulted from his imprudent excesses in drinking, and the sort of poisoning with which he had crowned the whole. He lay upon his bed in the same position in which he had first been placed, and was sleeping that heavy, painful sleep which serves as an expiation for bacchic excesses. Gerfaut was seated a few steps from him, at a table, writing; he seemed prepared to sit up all night, and to fulfill, with the devotion of a friend, the duties of a nurse. Octave arose at sight of the Baron, his face having resumed its habitual reserved expression. The two men greeted each other with equal composure. “Is he sleeping?” asked Christian. “But a few minutes only,” replied the latter; “he is all right now, and I hope,” Octave added, smilingly, “that this will serve as a lesson to you, and that hereafter you will put some limits to your princely hospitality. Your table is a regular ambush.” “Do not throw stones at me, I pray,” replied the Baron, with an appearance of equal good-humor. “If your friend wants to ask an explanation of anybody it is of you, for you took some kirsch of 1765 for water.” “I really believe that I was the drunker of the two,” interrupted Octave, with a vivacity which concealed a certain embarrassment; “we must have terribly scandalized Monsieur de Camier, who has but a poor opinion of Parisian heads and stomachs.” After looking for a moment at the sleeping artist, Christian approached the table where Gerfaut was seated, and threw a glance over the latter’s writing. “You are still at work, I see?” said he, as his eyes rested upon the paper. “Just now I am following the modest trade of copyist. These are some verses which Mademoiselle de Corandeuil asked me for--” “Will you do me a favor? I am going to her room now; give me these verses to hand to her. Since the misfortune that befell Constance, she has been terribly angry with me, and I shall not be sorry to have some reason for going to her room.” Octave finished the two or three lines which remained to be copied, and handed the sheet to Bergenheim. The latter looked at it attentively, then carefully folded it and put it in his pocket. “I thank you, Monsieur,” said he, “I will leave you to your friendly duties.”