Nor did the quantities of veeskysoda consumed by
the unhappy nobleman help him bear it, though undoubtedly he assured
himself it did. By midnight he was more than half-fuddled and wholly in
despair. Half an hour later he finished his eighth veeskysoda and wove
an unsteady but most dignified way back to the foyer of the hotel.
Immediately Dupont and his fellow, both markedly the worse for wear,
paid and left the cafe.
Lanyard returned to his room to get a new-bought travelling bag, and
started for the train afoot, a neat brown paper parcel under one arm.
On the way he made occasion to cross the Saone by one of its dozen
bridges, and paused in the middle of the span to meditate upon the
witchery of the night. When he moved on the brown paper parcel was
bearing merrily downstream the mortal remains of Andre Duchemin, that
is to say his discarded clothing.
In the Gare de Perrache Lanyard witnessed an affecting farewell scene
between the little man and Dupont. Not much to his surprise he
discovered that the former was not travelling to Paris that night,
after all; it was on Dupont's account alone that he had taken so much
trouble to secure the change of reservation.
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