CHAPTER XXXVIII.
TESTS OF FRIENDSHIP Frowenfeld turned away from the closing door, caught his head between his hands and tried to comprehend the new wildness of the tumult within.
Honore Grandissime avowedly in love with one of them--_which one_?
Doctor Keene visibly in love with one of them--_which one_?
And he! What meant this bounding joy that, like one gorgeous moth among innumerable bats, flashed to and fro among the wild distresses and dismays swarming in and out of his distempered imagination?
He did not answer the question; he only knew the confusion in his brain was dreadful.

Both hands could not hold back the throbbing of his temples; the table did not steady the trembling of his hands; his thoughts went hither and thither, heedless of his call.

Sit down as he might, rise up, pace the room, stand, lean his forehead against the wall--nothing could quiet the fearful disorder, until at length he recalled Honore's neglected advice and resolutely lay down and sought sleep; and, long before he had hoped to secure it, it came.
In the distant Grandissime mansion, Agricola Fusilier was casting about for ways and means to rid himself of the heaviest heart that ever had throbbed in his bosom.

He had risen at sunrise from slumber worse than sleeplessness, in which his dreams had anticipated the duel of to-morrow with Sylvestre.

He was trying to get the unwonted quaking out of his hands and the memory of the night's heart-dissolving phantasms from before his inner vision.