Before opening the envelope, he stood up at his full height, and filled
his lungs with a long, profound breath; then emitted it suddenly in a
sort of deep, short growl, and took his seat at the table. He tore open
the end of the envelope, pulled out the inclosure, which was an ordinary
printed telegraph-blank, filled in with three lines of writing, as
follows: "Been very ill come on at once at once must hear all no
alternative" in the scrawly and unpunctuated chirography peculiar to
written telegrams. The name signed was "M. Vauderp." Bressant read the
message, and afterward carefully perused the printing, even down to the
name of the printer's firm, which was given in very small type at the
bottom of the paper. Then he glanced over the writing once more, and
returned the paper to the envelope.
"At once, at once!" muttered he; "that's the only way of writing italics
in telegraphy, I suppose. Well, I'll go at once; it's ten now; there's a
train at half-past."
He unlocked a drawer in his table, and took from it a purse, which he
put in his pocket. He buttoned a pea-jacket across his broad chest,
pressed a round fur-cap on to his handsome head, took a pair of thick
gloves from the mantel-piece, and walked away without giving one
backward glance.
The snow blew and drifted through the open window into the empty room;
the few remaining flowers were hustled from their stalks; the red eye of
the stove grew dimmer and dimmer, and finally faded into darkness, and
the colored drawing of the patent derrick broke loose at another corner,
and flapped and fluttered against the wall in crazy exultation.