Make haste, you
little beast, I shall be too late."
M. Fortunat left the room. The frightful anger that had followed
his idiotic stupor sent his blood rushing madly to his brain. A
purple mist swam before his eyes; there was a loud ringing in his
ears, and with each pulsation of his heart his head seemed to
receive a blow from a heavy hammer. His feelings were so terrible
that he was really frightened. "Am I about to have an attack of
apoplexy?" he wondered. And, as every surrounding object seemed
to whirl around him, the very floor itself apparently rising and
falling under his feet, he remained on the landing waiting for
this horrible vertigo to subside and doing his best to reason with
himself. It was fully five minutes before he dared to risk the
descent; and even when he reached the street, his features were so
frightfully distorted that Chupin trembled.
He sprang out, assisted his employer into the cab, and bade the
driver return to the Place de la Bourse. It was really pitiful to
see the despair which had succeeded M. Fortunat's joyful
confidence. "This is the end of everything," he groaned. "I'm
robbed, despoiled, ruined! And such a sure thing as it seemed.
These misfortunes happen to no one but me! Some one in advance of
me! Some one else will capture the prize! Oh, if I knew the
wretch, if I only knew him!"
"One moment," interrupted Chupin; "I think know the man."
M. Fortunat gave a violent start.
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