When Jerome Bonaparte pushed open the door to Surt's bedroom, he saw Grand Marshal Surt swaying in a reclining chair.
Is this really Surt?
Looking at the Surt before him, the image of Surt in Jerome Bonaparte's memory appeared in his mind. No matter how he compared, he could not connect the robust man in the portrait with the aged figure lying motionless in the rocking chair.
At this moment, Grand Marshal Surt lay quietly in the rocking chair without moving, as if he had fallen asleep.
In Jerome Bonaparte's eyes, Surt was like a candle about to burn out, a slight breeze could extinguish him.
"Grand Marshal!" The attendant standing by quickly ran to Surt's side and softly called out to him.
Surt slowly opened his eyes, those eyes once filled with ambition and aggression, now only vacant.
"Oh! It's you!" Marshal Surt slowly looked at Jerome Bonaparte, a forced smile on his pale, bluish face, as he extended his hand to invite Jerome Bonaparte to sit down: "A rare guest!"
