And then suddenly Jeanne began to recite the service for the dead in a monotonous voice, but with incredible rapidity, still seated on the bed, and turning the beads of a long rosary.

Suddenly the door opened; she looked up, and fled through another door in the partition.

“What the devil’s that-an imp or an angel, saying the funeral service over you, and you under the clothes, as if you were in a shroud?”

This abrupt exclamation came from the rough voice of Grandchamp, who was so astonished at what he had seen that he dropped the glass of lemonade he was bringing in.  Finding that his master did not answer, he became still more alarmed, and raised the bedclothes.  Cinq-Mars’s face was crimson, and he seemed asleep, but his old domestic saw that the blood rushing to his head had almost suffocated him; and, seizing a jug full of cold water, he dashed the whole of it in his face.  This military remedy rarely fails to effect its purpose, and Cinq-Mars returned to himself with a start.

“Ah! it is thou, Grandchamp; what frightful dreams I have had!”

“Peste!  Monsieur le Marquis, your dreams, on the contrary, are very pretty ones.  I saw the tail of the last as I came in; your choice is not bad.”

“What dost mean, blockhead?”

“Nay, not a blockhead, Monsieur; I have good eyes, and I have seen what I have seen.  But, really ill as you are, Monsieur le Marechal would never—­”

“Thou art utterly doting, my friend; give me some drink, I am parched with thirst.  Oh, heavens! what a night!  I still see all those women.”

“All those women, Monsieur?  Why, how many are here?”

“I am speaking to thee of a dream, blockhead.  Why standest there like a post, instead of giving me some drink?”

“Enough, Monsieur; I will get more lemonade.”  And going to the door, he called over the staircase, “Germain!  Etienne!  Louis!”

The innkeeper answered from below:  “Coming, Monsieur, coming; they have been helping me to catch the madwoman.”

“What mad-woman?” said Cinq-Mars, rising in bed.

The host entered, and, taking off his cotton cap, said, respectfully:  “Oh, nothing, Monsieur le Marquis, only a madwoman that came here last night on foot, and whom we put in the next room; but she has escaped, and we have not been able to catch her.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Cinq-Mars, returning to himself and putting his hand to his eyes, “it was not a dream, then.  And my mother, where is she? and the Marechal, and—­Ah! and yet it is but a fearful dream!  Leave me.”

As he said this, he turned toward the wall, and again pulled the clothes over his head.

The innkeeper, in amazement, touched his forehead three times with his finger, looking at Grandchamp as if to ask him whether his master were also mad.

Grandchamp motioned him away in silence, and in order to watch the rest of the night by the side of Cinq-Mars, who was in a deep sleep, he seated himself in a large armchair, covered with tapestry, and began to squeeze lemons into a glass of water with an air as grave and severe as Archimedes calculating the condensing power of his mirrors.