After naming the first precautions, the doctor left the room, to prepare, himself, a calming potion. The next day, Monsieur de Sucy was better, but the doctor still watched him carefully. “I will admit to you, monsieur le marquis,” he said, “that I have feared some affection of the brain. Monsieur de Sucy has received a violent shock; his passions are strong; but, in him, the first blow decides all. To-morrow he may be entirely out of danger.” The doctor was not mistaken; and the following day he allowed the marquis to see his friend. “My dear d’Albon,” said Philippe, pressing his hand, “I am going to ask a kindness of you. Go to the Bons-Hommes, and find out all you can of the lady we saw there; and return to me as quickly as you can; I shall count the minutes.” Monsieur d’Albon mounted his horse at once, and galloped to the old abbey. When he arrived there, he saw before the iron gate a tall, spare man with a very kindly face, who answered in the affirmative when asked if he lived there. Monsieur d’Albon then informed him of the reasons for his visit. “What! monsieur,” said the other, “was it you who fired that fatal shot? You very nearly killed my poor patient.” “But, monsieur, I fired in the air.” “You would have done the countess less harm had you fired at her.” “Then we must not reproach each other, monsieur, for the sight of the countess has almost killed my friend, Monsieur de Sucy.” “Heavens! can you mean Baron Philippe de Sucy?” cried the doctor, clasping his hands. “Did he go to Russia; was he at the passage of the Beresina?” “Yes,” replied d’Albon, “he was captured by the Cossacks and kept for five years in Siberia; he recovered his liberty a few months ago.” “Come in, monsieur,” said the master of the house, leading the marquis into a room on the lower floor where everything bore the marks of capricious destruction. The silken curtains beside the windows were torn, while those of muslin remained intact. “You see,” said the tall old man, as they entered, “the ravages committed by that dear creature, to whom I devote myself. She is my niece; in spite of the impotence of my art, I hope some day to restore her reason by attempting a method which can only be employed, unfortunately, by very rich people.” Then, like all persons living in solitude who are afflicted with an ever present and ever renewed grief, he related to the marquis at length the following narrative, which is here condensed, and relieved of the many digressions made by both the narrator and the listener. CHAPTER II. THE PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA