"Ah!" thought Bussy, "was that tapestry, that frescoed ceiling,
that bed, the portrait between the windows, the beautiful blonde
woman with black eyes, the doctor blindfolded, was this all delirium?
Is nothing true but my combat? Where did I fight? Ah, yes, I
remember; near the Bastile, by the Rue St. Paul. I leaned against
a door, and it opened; I shut it--and then I remember no more.
Have I dreamed or not? And my horse! My horse must have been
found dead on the place. Doctor, pray call some one."

The doctor called a valet. Bussy inquired, and heard that the
animal, bleeding and mutilated, had dragged itself to the door
of the hotel, and had been found there.

"It must have been a dream," thought he again: "how should a
portrait come down from the wall and talk to a doctor with a
bandage on his eyes? I am a fool; and yet when I remember she
was so charming," and he began to describe her beauties, till
he cried out, "It is impossible it should have been a dream;
and yet I found myself in the street, and a monk kneeling by
me. Doctor," said he, "shall have to keep the house a fortnight
again for this scratch, as I did for the last?"

"We shall see; can you walk?"

"I seem to have quicksilver in my legs."

"Try."

Bussy jumped out of bed, and walked quickly round his room.