I had never seen Rouletabille so deeply agitated, even at the time of the most terrible events at the Glandier. He arose from his chair and walked up and down the room, casting aside any object which came in his way and repeating over and over: “No, no! It’s too terrible--too terrible!” I told him that it was not sensible to put himself in such a state merely upon the receipt of a telegram which might mean nothing at all, or might be the result of some delusion. And there, too, I added, that it was not at this time, when we needed all our strength and fortitude, that we ought to give way to imaginary fears which were particularly inexcusable in a lad of his practical temperament. “Inexcusable! I am glad you think so, Sainclair.” “But, my dear boy, you frighten me. What is there you know that you have not told me?” “I am going to tell you. The situation is horrible. Why didn’t that villain die?” “And, after all, how do you know that he is not dead?” “Look here, Sainclair--Don’t talk--Be quiet, please--You see, if he is alive, I wish to God that I were dead!” “You are crazy. It is if he is alive that you have all the more reason to live to defend that poor woman.” “Ah, that is true! That is true! Thanks, old fellow! You have said the only thing that makes me want to live. To defend her! I will not think of myself any longer--never again.” And Rouletabille smiled--a smile which almost frightened me. I threw my arm around him and begged him to tell me why he was so terrified, why he spoke of his own death and why he smiled so strangely. Rouletabille laid his hand on my shoulder, and I went on: “Tell your friend what it is, Rouletabille. Speak out. Relieve your mind. Tell me the secret that is killing you. I would tell you anything.” Rouletabille looked down and steadily into my eyes. Then he said: “You shall know all, Sainclair. You shall know as much as I do, and when you do, you will be as unhappy as I am, for you are kind and you are fond of me.” Then he straightened back his shoulders as though he had already cast off a burden and pointed in the direction of the railway. “We shall leave here in an hour,” he said. “There is no direct train from Eu to Paris in the winter: we shall not reach Paris until 7 o’clock. But that will give us plenty of time to pack our trunks and take the train that leaves the Lyons station at nine o’clock for Marseilles and Mentone.” He did not ask my opinion on the course which he had laid out. He was taking me to Mentone, just as he had brought me to Trepot. He was well aware that in the present crisis I could refuse him nothing. Besides, he was in such a state of mental strain that even if he had wished it, I should scarcely have left him. And it was not hard for me to accompany him, for we were just beginning our long vacations, and my affairs were so arranged that I felt entirely at liberty. “Then we are going to Eu?” I inquired.