"And you call that a serious affair?" said the Captain, laughing scornfully. "A matter that can only end in bloodshed, appears to me deserving of the epithet," said the Doctor, with assumed gravity. "Ah! M. Bouchereau thirsts for my blood?" cried Pelletier, laughing still louder; "hitherto, I took him to be rather herbivorous than carniverous. And with what sauce does he propose to eat me--sword or pistol?" "He leaves you the choice of arms," replied M. Magnian, with imperturbable seriousness. "It's all one to me. I told him so already. Let me see: to-morrow I breakfast with some of my comrades; it is a sort of regimental feed, and I should not like to miss it, but the day after to-morrow, I'm your man. Will that do?" "Perfectly. The day after to-morrow, seven in the morning, at the entrance of the forest of Vincennes." "Agreed," said the Captain, familiarly slapping his companion's arm with his large brawny hand. "So you meddle with duelling, Doctor? I should have thought a man of your profession would have looked upon it as a dangerous competitor." The physician replied to this very old joke, by a malicious smile, which he immediately repressed. "At random you have touched me on the raw," he said, after a moment's silence. "Shall I tell you the strange, I might say the monstrous idea that has just come into my head?" "Pray do. I am rather partial to monstrous ideas." "It occurred to me that for the interest of my reputation, I ought to wish the projected duel to prove fatal to Bouchereau." "Why so?" inquired the officer, with some surprise. "Because if you don't kill him, in less than a year I shall have the credit of his death." "I don't understand. Are you going to fight him?" "Certainly not; but I am his physician, and as such, responsible for his existence in the eyes of the vast number of persons who expect medical science to give sick men the health that nature refuses them. Therefore, as Bouchereau, according to all appearance, has not a year to live----" "What's the matter with him?" cried Pelletier, opening his great eyes. "Consumption!" replied the Doctor, in a compassionate tone, "a chronic disease--quite incurable! I was about sending him to Nice. We, physicians, as you know, when we have exhausted the resources of medicine, send our patients to the waters or to the South. If nothing happens to him the day after to-morrow, he shall set out: God knows if he will ever return." "Consumptive! he who is always as sallow as Debureau." "Complexion has nothing to do with it." "And you think he is in danger?" "I do not give him a year to live; perhaps not six months." The two men walked some distance, silent and serious.