I retorted angrily, whereat he only laughed the more; and then we went in to breakfast.

Our morning meal was more unsociable than usual.  I was too much annoyed to speak, and my father too preoccupied.  I longed to inquire after the Chevalier, but not choosing to break the silence, hurried through my breakfast that I might run round to the Red Lion immediately after.  Before we had left the table, a messenger came to say that “the conjuror was taken worse,” and so my father and I hastened away together.

He had passed from his trance-like sleep into a state of delirium, and when we entered the room was sitting up, pale and ghost-like, muttering to himself, and gesticulating as if in the presence of an audience.

“Pas du tout,” said he fantastically, “pas du tout, Messieurs—­here is no deception.  You shall see him pass from my hand to the coffre, and yet you shall not find how he does travel.”

My father smiled bitterly.

“Conjurer to the last!” said he.  “In the face of death, what a mockery is his trade!”

Wandering as were his wits, he caught the last word and turned fiercely round; but there was no recognition in his eye.

“Trade, Monsieur!” he echoed.  “Trade!—­you shall not call him trade!  Do you know who I am, that you dare call him trade? Dieu des Dieux!  N’est-ce pas que je suis noble, moi? Trade!—­when did one of my race embrace a trade? Canaille! I do condescend for my reasons to take your money, but you shall not call him a trade!”

Exhausted by this sudden burst of passion, he fell back upon his pillow, muttering and flushed.  I bent over him, and caught a scattered phrase from time to time.  He was dreaming of wealth, fancying himself rich and powerful, poor wretch! and all unconscious of his condition.

“You shall see my Chateaux,” he said, “my horses—­my carriages.  Listen—­it is the ringing of the bells.  Aha! le jour viendra—­le jour viendra!  Conjuror! who speaks of a conjuror?  I never was a conjuror!  I deny it:  and he lies who says it! Attendons!  Is the curtain up?  Ah! my table—­where is my table?  I cannot play till I have my table. Scelerats! je suis vole! je l’ai perdu! je l’ai perdu!  Ah, what shall I do?  What shall I do?  They have taken my table—­they have taken....”

He burst into tears, moaned twice or thrice, closed his eyes, and fell into a troubled sleep.

The landlady sobbed.  Hers was a kind heart, and the little Frenchman’s simple courtesy had won her good-will from the first.

“He had real quality manners,” she said, disconsolately.  “I do believe, gentlemen, that he had seen better days.  Poor as he was, he never disputed the price of anything; and he never spoke to me without taking off his hat.”

“Upon my soul, Mistress Cobbe,” said my father, “I incline to your opinion.  I do think he is not what he seems.”