“Dead this time, sure enough,” said De Simoncourt, bending over him.

“Indeed, I fear so,” replied Dalrymple, in a low, grave voice.  “Can we do nothing to help you, Monsieur de Simoncourt?”

“Nothing, thank you.  I have a carriage down the road, and must get further assistance from the village.  You had better lose no time in leaving Paris.”

“I suppose not.  Good-morning.”

“Good-morning,”

So we lifted our hats; gathered up the pistols; hurried out of the wood and across a field, so avoiding the village; found our cab waiting where we had left it; and in less than five minutes, were rattling down the dusty hill again and hurrying towards Paris.

Once in the cab, Dalrymple began hastily pulling off his coat and waistcoat.  I was startled to see his shirt-front stained with blood.

“Heavens!” I exclaimed, “you are not wounded?”

“Very slightly.  De Caylus was too good a shot to miss me altogether.  Pshaw! ’tis nothing—­a mere graze—­not even the bullet left in it!”

“If it had been a little more to the left....”  I faltered.

“If he had fired one second sooner, or lived one second longer, he would have had me through the heart, as sure as there’s a heaven above us!” said Dalrymple.

Then, suddenly changing his tone, he added, laughingly—­

“Nonsense, Damon! cheer up, and help me to tear this handkerchief into bandages.  Now’s the time to show off your surgery, my little AEsculapius.  By Jupiter, life’s a capital thing, after all!”

* * * * *

CHAPTER LI

THE PORTRAIT.

Having seen Dalrymple to his lodgings and dressed his wound, which was, in truth, but a very slight one, I left him and went home, promising to return in a few hours, and help him with his packing; for we both agreed that he must leave Paris that evening, come what might.

It was now close upon two o’clock, and I had been out since between three and four the previous afternoon—­not quite twenty-four hours, in point of actual time; but a week, a month, a year, in point of sensation!  Had I not seen a man die since that hour yesterday?

Walking homewards through the garish streets in the hot afternoon, all the strange scenes in which I had just been an actor thronged fantastically upon my memory.  The joyous dinner with Franz Mueller; the busy Temple; the noisy theatre; the long chase through the wet streets at midnight; the crowded gaming-house; the sweet country drive at early morning; the quiet wood, and the dead man lying on his back, with the shadows of the leaves upon his face,—­all this, in strange distinctness, came between me and the living tide of the Boulevards.