He gazed
into the well-known face and now for the first time saw how it had
altered of late. It seemed to him as though he were
reading a tragic story about himself.
They remained thus far a second or two and there glided over
Alphonse's features that expression of imploring helplessness which
Charles knew so well from the old school-days, when Alphonse came
bounding in at the last moment and wanted his composition written.
"Have you done with the JOURNAL AMUSANT?" asked Charles, with a
thick utterance.
"Yes; pray take it," answered Alphonse, hurriedly. He reached him
the paper, and at the same time got hold of Charles's thumb. He
pressed it and whispered, "Thanks," then--drained the glass.
Charles went over to the stranger who sat by the door: "Give me
the bill."
"You don't need our assistance, then?"
"No, thanks."
"So much the better," said the stranger, handing Charles a folded
blue paper. Then he paid for his coffee and went.
Madame Virginie rose with a little shriek: "Alphonse! Oh, my God!
Monsieur Alphonse is ill."
He slipped off his chair; his shoulders went up and his head fell
on one side. He remained sitting on the floor, with his back
against the chair.
There was a movement among those nearest; the doctor sprang over
and knelt beside him. When he looked in Alphonse's face he started
a little. He took his hand as if to feel his pulse, and at the
same time bent down over the glass which stood on the edge of the
table.
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