It was long since Charles had heard that old pet name.  He gazed into the well-known face and now for the first time saw how it had altered of late.  It seemed to him as though he were reading a tragic story about himself.

They remained thus far a second or two and there glided over Alphonse’s features that expression of imploring helplessness which Charles knew so well from the old school-days, when Alphonse came bounding in at the last moment and wanted his composition written.

“Have you done with the journal AMUSANT?” asked Charles, with a thick utterance.

“Yes; pray take it,” answered Alphonse, hurriedly.  He reached him the paper, and at the same time got hold of Charles’s thumb.  He pressed it and whispered, “Thanks,” then—­drained the glass.

Charles went over to the stranger who sat by the door:  “Give me the bill.”

“You don’t need our assistance, then?”

“No, thanks.”

“So much the better,” said the stranger, handing Charles a folded blue paper.  Then he paid for his coffee and went.

Madame Virginie rose with a little shriek:  “Alphonse!  Oh, my God! 
Monsieur Alphonse is ill.”

He slipped off his chair; his shoulders went up and his head fell on one side.  He remained sitting on the floor, with his back against the chair.

There was a movement among those nearest; the doctor sprang over and knelt beside him.  When he looked in Alphonse’s face he started a little.  He took his hand as if to feel his pulse, and at the same time bent down over the glass which stood on the edge of the table.

With a movement of the arm he gave it a slight push, so that it fell on the floor and was smashed.  Then he laid down the dead man’s hand and bound a handkerchief round his chin.

Not till then did the others understand what had happened.  “Dead?  Is he dead, doctor?  Monsieur Alphonse dead?”

“Heart disease,” answered the doctor.

One came running with water, another with vinegar.  Amid laughter and noise, the balls could be heard cannoning on the inner billiard-table.

“Hush!” some one whispered.  “Hush!” was repeated; and the silence spread in wider and wider circles round the corpse, until all was quite still.

“Come and lend a hand,” said the doctor.

The dead man was lifted up; they laid him on a sofa in a corner of the room, and the nearest gas-jets were put out.

Madame Virginie was still standing up; her face was chalk-white, and she held her little soft hand pressed against her breast.  They carried him right past the buffet.  The doctor had seized him under the back, so that his waistcoat slipped up and a piece of his fine white shirt appeared.

She followed with her eyes the slender, supple limbs she knew so well, and continued to stare towards the dark corner.

Most of the guests went away in silence.  A couple of young men entered noisily from the street; a waiter ran towards them and said a few words.  They glanced towards the corner, buttoned their coats, and plunged out again into the fog.