‘Some rather high words exchanged on either side,’ went on the officer, deceived by the doctor’s candid air, ‘to tell the truth I quite believe it was I who was in the wrong. You know I am hot-headed: apropos of some trifle or other I bullied poor Bouchereau, and I’m sorry for it now. In short, I have fought enough duels to be able to arrange one now pacifically without any one thinking that I’ve got cold feet. So then, if you’d like to advise Bouchereau to let matters drop, I give you a free hand. Between ourselves, I think that the proposition won’t displease him.’

‘You might be mistaken, captain,’ answered the doctor, who kept his gravity admirably; ‘Yesterday Bouchereau appeared to be exasperated. Although he is of a peaceful disposition, he becomes a tiger when his blood boils. It appears that in your altercation you hurt him seriously, and unless you offer him a formal apology—’

‘Don’t let that be a stumbling-block,’ interrupted Pelletier; ‘apologies are scarcely in my line; this will be the first time that such a thing has happened to me; but, with an old friend, one doesn’t look at things so closely. Besides, I’d rather make concessions than have, in the end, to reproach myself. What about us going together to see Bouchereau?’

‘Let us go,’ said the doctor who could scarcely refrain from smiling at seeing to what extent his own interests were making this duellist by profession humane, sensitive, and considerate.

When he saw the doctor, followed by the general staff officer, entering his room, Bouchereau, who had not been able to close an eye all night, experienced an emotion comparable to that of a condemned man to whom the gaoler reads out the sentence containing the death penalty.

The first words of the interview restored fluidity to the blood which was ready to congeal in his veins. The captain formulated the most explicit and formal apologies, and retired immediately after exchanging a handshake with his old friend, who in his joy at being quit of his terrors, didn’t dream of showing himself unreasonable.

‘Doctor, you are a sorcerer!’ cried Bouchereau, when he was alone with the doctor.

‘That’s a bit in my way of business,’ the latter said laughing, ‘so here’s this terrible affair almost arranged: my share is done, will you do yours? When do you set out for the south?’

The satisfaction imprinted on Bouchereau’s features disappeared in a moment, and gave place to an anxious and sombre expression.

‘Doctor,’ he said in an altered voice, ‘you must tell me the truth. I have some strength of mind; I will know how to listen to my sentence: my chest is affected, isn’t it?’

‘You mean your brain.’

‘My brain too!’ cried Bouchereau, and he got paler.

‘You are mad,’ went on the doctor, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I would be very glad to change my chest for yours.’

‘You are deceiving me; I can’t get your words yesterday out of my head. I’ve coughed all night, and between my shoulders I feel a pain that I’ve never noticed up till now.’

‘Imagination.’

‘I feel what I feel,’ continued Bouchereau in a lugubrious voice, ‘I do not fear death; but, I admit, it is not without regret that, in the flower of my manhood, I shall see myself forced to say an eternal farewell to my wife and my family. It is my duty to look after myself for their sakes, if I do not do it for my own.