A very long time had passed when she thought she heard the bell of her apartment ring.  She started, sat up and listened.  A second time the vibrating tinkle broke the stillness of the night.

She leaped out of bed, and with all her strength pressed the electric button that summoned her maid.  Then, candle in hand, she ran to the vestibule.

Through the door she asked:  “Who is there?”

“It is a letter,” an unknown voice replied.

“A letter!  From whom?”

“From a physician.”

“What physician?”

“I do not know; it is about some accident.”

Hesitating no more, she opened the door, and found herself facing a cab-driver in an oilskin cap.  He held a paper in his hand, which he presented to her.  She read:  “Very urgent—­Monsieur le Comte de Guilleroy.”

The writing was unknown.

“Enter, my good man,” said she; “sit down, and wait for me.”

When she reached her husband’s door her heart was beating so violently that she could not call him.  She pounded on the wood with her metal candlestick.  The Count was asleep and did not hear.

Then, impatient, nervous, she kicked the door, and heard a sleepy voice asking:  “Who is there?  What time is it?”

“It is I,” she called.  “I have an urgent letter for you, brought by a cabman.  There has been some accident.”

“Wait!  I am getting up.  I’ll be there,” he stammered from behind his bed-curtains.

In another minute he appeared in his dressing-gown.  At the same time two servants came running, aroused by the ringing of the bell.  They were alarmed and bewildered, having seen a stranger sitting on a chair in the dining-room.

The Count had taken the letter and was turning it over in his fingers, murmuring:  “What is that?  I cannot imagine.”

“Well, read it, then!” said the Countess, in a fever.

He tore off the envelope, unfolded the paper, uttered an exclamation of amazement, then looked at his wife with frightened eyes.

“My God! what is it?” said she.

He stammered, hardly able to speak, so great was his emotion:  “Oh, a great misfortune—­a great misfortune!  Bertin has fallen under a carriage!”

“Dead?” she cried.

“No, no!” said he; “read for yourself.”

She snatched from his hand the letter he held out and read: 

“MONSIEUR:  A great misfortune has just happened.  Your friend, the eminent artist, M. Olivier Bertin, has been run over by an omnibus, the wheel of which passed over his body.  I cannot as yet say anything decisive as to the probable result of this accident, which may not be serious, although it may have an immediate and fatal result.  M. Bertin begs you earnestly and entreats Madame la Comtesse de Guilleroy to come to him at once.  I hope, Monsieur, that Madame la Comtesse and yourself will grant the desire of our friend in common, who before daylight may have ceased to live.