Ducie was careful not to disturb him. His inhalations
were slow, gentle and regular. After a time, a thin film or glaze began
to gather over his wide-open eyes, dimming their brightness, and making
them seem like the eyes of someone dead. His complexion became livid,
his face more cadaverous than it naturally was. Then his eyes closed
slowly and gently, like those of an infant dropping to sleep. For a
little time longer he kept on inhaling the smoke, but every minute the
inhalations became fainter and fewer in number. At length the hand that
held the pipe dropped nervelessly by his side, the amber mouthpiece
slipped from between his lips, his jaw dropped, and, with an almost
imperceptible sigh, his head sank softly back on to the cushions
behind, and M. Paul Platzoff was in the opium-eater's paradise.
Ducie, who had never seen anyone similarly affected, was frightened by
his host's death-like appearance. He was doubtful whether Platzoff had
not been seized with a fit. In order to satisfy himself he touched the
gong and summoned Cleon. That incomparable domestic glided in, noiseless
as a shadow.
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