“Oh, sir,” cried the old man, “this is too horrible; my poor master will certainly die.”

“But I do not know what is the matter with him; no one has told me anything, in fact.”

“It was terribly sudden,” answered the man.  “It was about this time the day before yesterday that the Duke was alone with M. Norbert in the dining-room.  All at once we heard a great outcry.  We ran in and saw my poor master lying senseless on the ground, his face purple and distorted.”

“He must have had a fit of apoplexy.”

“Not exactly; the doctor called it a rush of blood to the brain; at least, I think that is what he said, and he added that the reason he did not die on the spot was because in falling he had cut open his head against the oaken sideboard, and the wound bled profusely.  We carried him up to his bed; he showed no signs of life, and now——­”

“Well, how is he now?”

“No one dare give an opinion; my poor master is quite unconscious, and should he recover—­and I do not think for a moment that he will—­the doctor says his mind will have entirely gone.”

“Horrible!  Too horrible!  And a man of such intellectual power, too.  I shall not ask you to let me look at him, for I could do no good, and the sight would upset me.  But can I not see M. Norbert?”

“Pray, do not attempt to do so, sir.”

“I was his father’s intimate friend, and if the condolences of such a one could assuage the affliction under which—­”

“Impossible!” answered the man in a quick, eager manner.  “M.  Norbert was with his father at the time of his seizure, and has given strict orders that he is not to be disturbed on any account; but I must go to him at once, for we are expecting the physicians who are coming from Poitiers.”

“Very well, then I will go now, but to-night I will send up one of my people for news.”

With these words, M. de Puymandour walked slowly away, absorbed in thought.  The manner and expression of the servant had struck him as extremely strange.  He noted the fact that Norbert was alone with his father at the time of the seizure, and, recalling to mind the opposition he had met with from his daughter, he began to imagine that the Duke had found his son rebellious, and that the apoplectic fit had been brought on by a sudden access of passion.  Interest and ambition working together brought him singularly near the truth.

“If the Duke dies, or becomes a maniac,” thought he to himself, “the end as regards us will be the same for Norbert will break off the match to a certainty.”

He felt that such a proceeding would cause him to be more jeered at and ridiculed than ever, and that the only path of escape left open to him was to marry his daughter to the Marquis de Croisenois, which was a most desirable alliance, in spite of all he had said against it.  A voice close to his ear aroused him from his reflections:  it was that of Daumon, who had come up unperceived.