The Counts Millions | Page 4

M. Casimir, "she conceals it bravely."
"Naturally enough," sneered the waiting-maid, with an ironical gesture;
"each month that mademoiselle remains here, brings her too much
money for her to complain."
By the laugh that greeted this reply, and by the looks the older servants
exchanged, the new-comer must have realized that he had discovered
the secret skeleton hidden in every house. "What! what!" he exclaimed,
on fire with curiosity; "is there really anything in that? To tell the truth,
I was inclined to doubt it."
His companions were evidently about to tell him all they knew, or
rather all they thought they knew, when the front-door bell rang
vigorously.
"There he comes!" exclaimed the concierge; "but he's in too much of a
hurry; hell have to wait awhile."
He sullenly pulled the cord, however; the heavy door swayed on its
hinges, and a cab-driver, breathless and hatless, burst into the room,
crying, "Help! help!"
The servants sprang to their feet.
"Make haste!" continued the driver. "I was bringing a gentleman
here--you must know him. He's outside, in my vehicle----"
Without pausing to listen any longer, the servants rushed out, and the
driver's incoherent explanation at once became intelligible. At the
bottom of the cab, a roomy four-wheeler, a man was lying all of a heap,
speechless and motionless. He must have fallen forward, face
downward, and owing to the jolting of the vehicle his head had slipped
under the front seat.
"Poor devil!" muttered M. Casimir, "he must have had a stroke of
apoplexy." The valet was peering into the vehicle as he spoke, and his
comrades were approaching, when suddenly he drew back, uttering a
cry of horror. "Ah, my God! it is the count!"
Whenever there is an accident in Paris, a throng of inquisitive
spectators seems to spring up from the very pavement, and indeed more

than fifty persons had already congregated round about the vehicle.
This circumstance restored M. Casimir's composure; or, at least, some
portion of it. "You must drive into the courtyard," he said, addressing
the cabman. "M. Bourigeau, open the gate, if you please." And then,
turning to another servant, he added:
"And you must make haste and fetch a physician--no matter who. Run
to the nearest doctor, and don't return until you bring one with you."
The concierge had opened the gate, but the driver had disappeared; they
called him, and on receiving no reply the valet seized the reins and
skilfully guided the cab through the gateway.
Having escaped the scrutiny of the crowd, it now remained to remove
the count from the vehicle, and this was a difficult task, on account of
the singular position of his body; still, they succeeded at last, by
opening both doors of the cab, the three strongest men uniting in their
efforts. Then they placed him in a large arm-chair, carried him to his
own room, and speedily had him undressed and in bed.
He had so far given no sign of life; and as he lay there with his head
weighing heavily on the pillow, you might have thought that all was
over. His most intimate friend would scarcely have recognized him. His
features were swollen and discolored; his eyes were closed, and a dark
purple circle, looking almost like a terrible bruise, extended round them.
A spasm had twisted his lips, and his distorted mouth, which was
drawn on one side and hung half open imparted a most sinister
expression to his face. In spite of every precaution, he had been
wounded as he was removed from the cab. His forehead had been
grazed by a piece of iron, and a tiny stream of blood was trickling down
upon his face. However, he still breathed; and by listening attentively,
one could distinguish a faint rattling in his throat.
The servants, who had been so garrulous a few moments before, were
silent now. They lingered in the room, exchanging glances of mute
consternation. Their faces were pale and sad, and there were tears in the
eyes of some of them. What was passing in their minds? Perhaps they
were overcome by that unconquerable fear which sudden and
unexpected death always provokes. Perhaps they unconsciously loved
this master, whose bread they ate. Perhaps their grief was only
selfishness, and they were merely wondering what would become of
them, where they should find another situation, and if it would prove a

good one. Not knowing what to do, they talked together in subdued
voices, each suggesting some remedy he had heard spoken of for such
cases. The more sensible among them were proposing to go and inform
mademoiselle or Madame Leon, whose rooms were on the floor above,
when the rustling of a skirt against the door suddenly made them turn.
The person whom they called "mademoiselle"