When he came to himself he was alone in the room. It was cold and
cheerless--no fire on the hearth, no light save that flaring from a lamp
in the street outside his window. He rang the bell at his hand. No one
answered. He called aloud: "Damour! Damour!"

Damour was far beyond earshot. He had bethought him that now his place
was in Bercy, where he might gather up what fragments of good fortune
remained, what of Philip's valuables might be secured. Ere he had fallen
back insensible, Philip, in trying the pen, had written his own name on a
piece of paper. Above this Damour wrote for himself an order upon the
chamberlain of Bercy to enter upon Philip's private apartments in the
castle; and thither he was fleeing as Philip lay dying in the dark room
of the house in the Rue de Vaugirard.

The woman of the house, to whose care Philip was passed over by Damour,
had tired of watching, and had gone to spend one of his gold pieces for
supper with her friends.

Meanwhile in the dark comfortless room, the light from without flickering
upon his blanched face, Philip was alone with himself, with memory, and
with death. As he lay gasping, a voice seemed to ring through the silent
room, repeating the same words again and again--and the voice was his own
voice. It was himself--some other outside self of him--saying, in
tireless repetition: "May I die a black, dishonourable death, abandoned
and alone, if ever I deceive you. I should deserve that if I deceived
you, Guida!...." "A black, dishonourable death, abandoned and alone": it
was like some horrible dirge chanting in his ear.

Pictures flashed before his eyes, strange imaginings. Now he was passing
through dark corridors, and the stone floor beneath was cold--so cold!