Without pausing to listen any longer, the servants rushed out, and
the driver's incoherent explanation at once became intelligible.
At the bottom of the cab, a roomy four-wheeler, a man was lying
all of a heap, speechless and motionless. He must have fallen
forward, face downward, and owing to the jolting of the vehicle
his head had slipped under the front seat.

"Poor devil!" muttered M. Casimir, "he must have had a stroke of
apoplexy." The valet was peering into the vehicle as he spoke, and
his comrades were approaching, when suddenly he drew back,
uttering a cry of horror. "Ah, my God! it is the count!"

Whenever there is an accident in Paris, a throng of inquisitive
spectators seems to spring up from the very pavement, and indeed
more than fifty persons had already congregated round about the
vehicle. This circumstance restored M. Casimir's composure; or,
at least, some portion of it. "You must drive into the
courtyard," he said, addressing the cabman. "M. Bourigeau, open
the gate, if you please." And then, turning to another servant, he
added:

"And you must make haste and fetch a physician--no matter who.
Run to the nearest doctor, and don't return until you bring one
with you."

The concierge had opened the gate, but the driver had disappeared;
they called him, and on receiving no reply the valet seized the
reins and skilfully guided the cab through the gateway.