“MONSIEUR: A great misfortune has just happened. Your friend, the eminent artist, M. Olivier Bertin, has been run over by an omnibus, the wheel of which passed over his body. I cannot as yet say anything decisive as to the probable result of this accident, which may not be serious, although it may have an immediate and fatal result. M. Bertin begs you earnestly and entreats Madame la Comtesse de Guilleroy to come to him at once. I hope, Monsieur, that Madame la Comtesse and yourself will grant the desire of our friend in common, who before daylight may have ceased to live. “DR. DE RIVIL.” The Countess stared at her husband with great, fixed eyes, full of terror. Then suddenly she experienced, like an electric shock, an awakening of that courage which comes to women at times, which makes them in moments of terror the most valiant of creatures. Turning to her maid she said: “Quick! I am going to dress.” “What will Madame wear?” asked the servant. “Never mind that. Anything you like. James,” she added, “be ready in five minutes.” Returning toward her room, her soul overwhelmed, she noticed the cabman, still waiting, and said to him: “You have your carriage?” “Yes, Madame.” “That is well; we will take that.” Wildly, with precipitate haste, she threw on her clothes, hooking, clasping, tying, and fastening at hap-hazard; then, before the mirror, she lifted and twisted her hair without a semblance of order, gazing without thinking of what she was doing at the reflection of her pale face and haggard eyes. When her cloak was over her shoulders, she rushed to her husband's room, but he was not yet ready. She dragged him along. “Come, come!” said she; “remember, he may die!” The Count, dazed, followed her stumblingly, feeling his way with his feet on the dark stairs, trying to distinguish the steps, so that he should not fall. The drive was short and silent. The Countess trembled so violently that her teeth rattled, and through the window she saw the flying gas-jets, veiled by the falling rain. The sidewalks gleamed, the Boulevard was deserted, the night was sinister. On arriving, they found that the painter's door was open, and that the concierge's lodge was lighted but empty. At the top of the stairs the physician, Dr. de Rivil, a little gray man, short, round, very well dressed, extremely polite, came to meet them. He bowed low to the Countess and held out his hand to the Count. She asked him, breathing rapidly as if climbing the stairs had exhausted her and put her out of breath: “Well, doctor?” “Well, Madame, I hope that it will be less serious than I thought at first.” “He will not die?” she exclaimed. “No. At least, I do not believe so.” “Will you answer for that?” “No. I only say that I hope to find only a simple abdominal contusion without internal lesions.” “What do you call lesions?” “Lacerations.” “How do you know that there are none?” “I suppose it.” “And if there are?” “Oh, then it would be serious.”