“Yes,” put in one of the _Ruy Blas_ guests, “there certainly was a fine draught under the table.” “Yes,” Duquesnel was just replying to some one who was worrying him, “yes; no doubt there was too much heat for his head.” “Yes,” added another of the guests, “our heads were nearly on fire with that wretched gas.” I could see the moment arriving when Victor Hugo would be reproached by all of his guests for the cold, the heat, the food, and the wine of his banquet. All these imbecile remarks got on Duquesnel’s nerves. He shrugged his shoulders, and drawing me away from the crowd, said: “It’s all over with him.” I had had the presentiment of this, but the certitude of it now caused me intense grief. “I want to go,” I said to Duquesnel. “Kindly tell some one to ask for my carriage.” I moved towards the small drawing-room which served as a cloak-room for our wraps, and there old Madame Lambquin knocked up against me. Slightly intoxicated by the heat and the wine, she was waltzing with Talien. “Ah, I beg your pardon, little Madonna,” she said; “I nearly knocked you over.” I pulled her towards me, and without reflecting whispered to her, “Don’t dance any more, Mamma Lambquin; Chilly is dying.” She was purple, but her face turned as white as chalk. Her teeth began to chatter, but she did not utter a word. “Oh, my dear Lambquin,” I murmured; “I did not know I should make you so wretched.” She was not listening to me, though, any longer; she was putting on her cloak. “Are you leaving?” she asked me. “Yes,” I replied. “Will you drive me home? I will then tell you——” She wrapped a black fichu round her head, and we both went downstairs, accompanied by Duquesnel and Paul Meurice, who saw us into the carriage. She lived in the St. Germain quarter and I in the Rue de Rome. On the way the poor woman told me the following story.