"If I could raise his head; but his hair has fallen over his face and conceals it.--Mon Dieu! is this a delusion?" "What is it, chevalier?" "For heaven's sake, stand aside a little, so that the light may shine on this unfortunate man--yes, it is he! it is surely he!" "Who, in God's name?" "Léodgard!" "The count--is it possible!--Great God! is he dead?" "Wait--wait!--No, it seems to me that I feel a faint movement of the heart." "I will run at once to the hôtel for help; don't leave him, chevalier." Ambroisine was no longer afraid, she forgot the cold and the darkness alike. Running along the dark arcade, she soon reached the Hôtel de Marvejols; and having enjoined upon the concierge to conceal from the countess all knowledge of what was going on, she took two servants with her and hurried back at full speed to Jarnonville, who was on his knees beside Léodgard, having raised his head, which he was supporting against his breast. But the wounded man had not recovered consciousness; he was still in the same condition. With the aid of the two servants, the chevalier raised Léodgard, who was forthwith transported to the Hôtel de Marvejols. The count had his own suite there, which he had not occupied for many months, but which was always ready for his occupancy, none the less. "It is your master," said the chevalier to the servants, whom curiosity had drawn to the gateway; "it is Monsieur le Comte de Marvejols, whom we found in this condition a few steps from here. Let one of you run with all speed to fetch a physician or a surgeon. But, above all things, absolute secrecy; do not let this accident reach madame la comtesse's ears to-night; before we tell her that her husband is under her roof, we must know if there is any hope of restoring him to life!" Jarnonville's orders were executed with zeal. Ambroisine installed herself by the wounded man's bedside, having sent a servant to inform her father that she should pass the night at the Hôtel de Marvejols. Luckily, the hôtel was an immense place, and the young countess's apartment was in a different wing from that to which her husband had been taken. So that Bathilde slept in peace beside her daughter, having no suspicion that the constant object of her thoughts was so near her at that moment. The surgeon summoned by the servant carefully examined the deep wound in Léodgard's breast. One and all waited anxiously to hear what he would say, what judgment he would pronounce. But the man of science simply shook his head in a far from encouraging fashion, and said: