When the Comte de Witt was gone, the prince referred to the comte’s mother, to ‘his exquisitely beautiful mother,’ as he expressed it, ‘whose image rises before me the moment I catch a glimpse of her son and reminds me of the best years of my life. That type of beauty is lost,’ he went on. ‘It was a combination of Eastern loveliness and Western grace. You ought to have seen her, that Comtesse de Witt, when for the first time she appeared at the Court of France. No words of mine can convey an idea of the effect she produced, of the universal enthusiasm she aroused. I remember that, hearing her beautiful eyes--which were, in fact, the most beautiful conceivable--constantly mentioned, she imagined that the adjective and the substantive were inseparable. One day Marie-Antoinette said to her; “What’s the matter, comtesse, you do not appear to be well?” “Madame,” was the answer, “I have got a pain in my beautiful eyes.” As you may imagine, this ingenuous, delightfully naïve reply went the round, and justly applied to the lovely creature.’ I noticed that talking seemed to tire him, and I left, not without a vague feeling of sadness and anxiety. I felt depressed all day, and in order to verify my apprehensions of the morning I went back at night. Doctor Malfati[91] and the Comte Golowkin, known in connection with his unsuccessful mission to China, were with him, and the former was warning him against his want of care, which might be attended with serious consequences. Since the morning violent erysipelas had set in; the patient seemed much weaker. Golowkin, who had no more faith than Molière in doctors and the art of healing, was trying to dispel his uneasiness. ‘With all due deference to the faculty,’ replied the charming old man, ‘I have always belonged to the sect of unbelievers where medicine was concerned. You know the remedies I employed during the famous journey with the great Catherine in Taurida. She was very anxious that I should submit to some of the dictates of Hippocrates. “I have got a peculiar way of treating myself,” I replied. “When I am ill, I send for my two friends, Ségur and Cobentzel: I purge the one and bleed the other; and that as a rule cures me.”’ ‘Times are changed, prince,’ said the doctor, somewhat nettled; ‘and if my memory does not mislead me, six lustres have gone by since then. Just let us count the years a bit. They make, as far as I can reckon----’