He had pricked the paper with one of the points of his compass while the other point traced the circle which might represent the Tower of the Bold as we could see it in the design of M. Darzac. Then, dipping his brush into a tiny dish half full of the red paint which M. Darzac had been using he carefully spread the paint over the entire space occupied by the circle. In doing this, he was extremely particular, giving the greatest attention to seeing that the paint was of the same thickness at every point, just as a student might have done in preparing a lesson. He bent his head first to the right and then to the left as though to see the effect, moistening his lips with his tongue as though he were meditating earnestly. In a moment he gave a little start and then sat motionless. His eyes were fixed on the drawing as though they had been glued to it. They did not even move in their sockets. The stillness was horrible, but it was not much better when his lips opened to utter an exclamation of breathless horror. His face looked like that of a maniac. And he turned toward me so quickly that he upset the great easy chair in which he had been seated. “Sainclair! Sainclair! Look at the red paint! Look at the red paint!” I leaned over the drawing, breathless, terrified by the savage exultation of his tone. But I could only see a little drawing carefully done. “The red paint! the red paint!” he kept groaning, his eyes staring in his head as though he were witnessing some frightful spectacle. “But what--what is it?” I stammered. “‘_What is it?_’ My God, man, can’t you see? Don’t you know that that is _blood_?” No, I did not know it--indeed, I was quite sure that it wasn’t blood. It was merely red paint. But I took care not to contradict Rouletabille. I feigned to be interested in this idea of blood. “Whose blood?” I inquired. “Do you think that it can be Larsan’s?” “Oh! oh! oh! Larsan’s blood? Who knows anything about Larsan’s blood? Who has ever seen the color of it? To see that, it would be necessary to open my own veins, Sainclair. That’s the only way!” I was completely overwhelmed and astonished. “My father would not let his blood be spilled like that!” He was speaking again with that strange, desperate pride of his father. “When my father wears a wig, it will fit! My father would not let his blood be spilled like that!” “Bernier’s hands were covered with it and you yourself saw it upon the hand of the Lady in Black.” “Yes, yes! That is true--that is true! But they could never kill my father like that!” He seemed to grow more excited every moment and he never ceased gazing on the little wash drawing. At last he spoke, his breast shaken with a great sob. “O, God! O God! O God, have pity on us! That would be too frightful!” He ceased for a moment and then spoke again: “My poor mother did not deserve this! I did not deserve it--nor any one in the world!” A tear ran down his cheek and fell into the little dish of paint.