Newman possessed a remarkable talent for sitting still when it was necessary, and he had an opportunity to use it on his journey to Switzerland.  The successive hours of the night brought him no sleep, but he sat motionless in his corner of the railway-carriage, with his eyes closed, and the most observant of his fellow-travelers might have envied him his apparent slumber.  Toward morning slumber really came, as an effect of mental rather than of physical fatigue.  He slept for a couple of hours, and at last, waking, found his eyes resting upon one of the snow-powdered peaks of the Jura, behind which the sky was just reddening with the dawn.  But he saw neither the cold mountain nor the warm sky; his consciousness began to throb again, on the very instant, with a sense of his wrong.  He got out of the train half an hour before it reached Geneva, in the cold morning twilight, at the station indicated in Valentin’s telegram.  A drowsy station-master was on the platform with a lantern, and the hood of his overcoat over his head, and near him stood a gentleman who advanced to meet Newman.  This personage was a man of forty, with a tall lean figure, a sallow face, a dark eye, a neat mustache, and a pair of fresh gloves.  He took off his hat, looking very grave, and pronounced Newman’s name.  Our hero assented and said, “You are M. de Bellegarde’s friend?”

“I unite with you in claiming that sad honor,” said the gentleman.  “I had placed myself at M. de Bellegarde’s service in this melancholy affair, together with M. de Grosjoyaux, who is now at his bedside.  M. de Grosjoyaux, I believe, has had the honor of meeting you in Paris, but as he is a better nurse than I he remained with our poor friend.  Bellegarde has been eagerly expecting you.”

“And how is Bellegarde?” said Newman.  “He was badly hit?”

“The doctor has condemned him; we brought a surgeon with us.  But he will die in the best sentiments.  I sent last evening for the cure of the nearest French village, who spent an hour with him.  The cure was quite satisfied.”

“Heaven forgive us!” groaned Newman.  “I would rather the doctor were satisfied!  And can he see me—­shall he know me?”

“When I left him, half an hour ago, he had fallen asleep after a feverish, wakeful night.  But we shall see.”  And Newman’s companion proceeded to lead the way out of the station to the village, explaining as he went that the little party was lodged in the humblest of Swiss inns, where, however, they had succeeded in making M. de Bellegarde much more comfortable than could at first have been expected.  “We are old companions in arms,” said Valentin’s second; “it is not the first time that one of us has helped the other to lie easily.  It is a very nasty wound, and the nastiest thing about it is that Bellegarde’s adversary was not shot.  He put his bullet where he could.  It took it into its head to walk straight into Bellegarde’s left side, just below the heart.”