Madame de Mussidan liked the doctor and his pleasant and witty conversation very much, and was always charmed to see him; but it was intolerable that he should venture to interfere in her daughter’s marriage. “Really, sir, you confer a great honor upon the Count and myself,” answered she haughtily. Her severe manner, however, did not cause the doctor to lose his temper. He had come to say certain things in a certain manner. He had learned his part, and nothing that the Countess could say would prevent his playing it. “I assure you, madame,” returned he, “that when I accepted the mission with which I am charged, I only did so from my feelings of respect to you and yours.” “You are really very kind,” answered the Countess superciliously. “And I am sure, madame, that after you have heard what I have to say, you will have even more reason to agree with me.” His manner as he said this was so peculiar, that the Countess started as though she had received a galvanic shock. “For more than twenty-five years,” pursued the doctor, “I have been the constant depository of strange family secrets, and some of them have been very terrible ones. I have often found myself in a very delicate position, but never in such an embarrassing one as I am now.” “You alarm me,” said the Countess, dropping her impatient manner. “If, madame, what I have come to relate to you are the mere ravings of a lunatic, I will offer my most sincere apologies; but if, on the contrary, his statements are true--and he has irrefragable proofs in his possession,--then, madame----” “What then, doctor?” “Then, madame, I can only say, make every use of me, for I will willingly place my life at your disposal.” The Countess uttered a laugh as artificial as the tears of long-expectant heirs. “Really,” said she, “your solemn air and tones almost kill me with laughter.” “She laughs too heartily, and at the wrong time. Mascarin is right,” thought the doctor. “I trust, madame,” continued he, “that I too may laugh at my own imaginary fears; but whatever may be the result, permit me to remind you that a little time back you said that a doctor was a father confessor; for, like a priest, the physician only hears secrets in order to forget them. He is also more fitted to console and advise, for, as his profession brings him into contact with the frailties and passions of the world, he can comprehend and excuse.” “And you must not forget, doctor, that like the priest also, he preaches very long sermons.” As she uttered this sarcasm, there was a jesting look upon her features, but it elicited no smile from Hortebise, who, as he proceeded, grew more grave. “I may be foolish,” he said; “but I had better be that than reopen some old wound.” “Do not be afraid, doctor; speak out.”