Monsieur George through the left side of his breast.  One may imagine the consternation of the four seconds and the activity of the two surgeons in the confined, drowsy heat of that walled garden.  It was within an easy drive of the town and as Monsieur George was being conveyed there at a walking pace a little brougham coming from the opposite direction pulled up at the side of the road.  A thickly veiled woman’s head looked out of the window, took in the state of affairs at a glance, and called out in a firm voice:  “Follow my carriage.”  The brougham turning round took the lead.  Long before this convoy reached the town another carriage containing four gentlemen (of whom one was leaning back languidly with his arm in a sling) whisked past and vanished ahead in a cloud of white, Provencal dust.  And this is the last appearance of Captain Blunt in Monsieur George’s narrative.  Of course he was only told of it later.  At the time he was not in a condition to notice things.  Its interest in his surroundings remained of a hazy and nightmarish kind for many days together.  From time to time he had the impression that he was in a room strangely familiar to him, that he had unsatisfactory visions of Dona Rita, to whom he tried to speak as if nothing had happened, but that she always put her hand on his mouth to prevent him and then spoke to him herself in a very strange voice which sometimes resembled the voice of Rose.  The face, too, sometimes resembled the face of Rose.  There were also one or two men’s faces which he seemed to know well enough though he didn’t recall their names.  He could have done so with a slight effort, but it would have been too much trouble.  Then came a time when the hallucinations of Dona Rita and the faithful Rose left him altogether.  Next came a period, perhaps a year, or perhaps an hour, during which he seemed to dream all through his past life.  He felt no apprehension, he didn’t try to speculate as to the future.  He felt that all possible conclusions were out of his power, and therefore he was indifferent to everything.  He was like that dream’s disinterested spectator who doesn’t know what is going to happen next.  Suddenly for the first time in his life he had the soul-satisfying consciousness of floating off into deep slumber.

When he woke up after an hour, or a day, or a month, there was dusk in the room; but he recognized it perfectly.  It was his apartment in Dona Rita’s house; those were the familiar surroundings in which he had so often told himself that he must either die or go mad.  But now he felt perfectly clear-headed and the full sensation of being alive came all over him, languidly delicious.  The greatest beauty of it was that there was no need to move.  This gave him a sort of moral satisfaction.  Then the first thought independent of personal sensations came into his head.  He wondered when Therese would come in and begin talking.  He saw vaguely a human figure in the room but that was a man.  He was speaking in a deadened voice which had yet a preternatural distinctness.