“You do not wish to read it?” the other continued. “Listen to me.” And in a voice trembling with passion, he read: “‘I have watched the spectacle of an unfortunate young woman, turned into a veritable monster by means of a syphilitic infection. Her face, or rather let me say what was left of her face, was nothing but a flat surface seamed with scars.’” George covered his face, exclaiming, “Enough, sir! Have mercy!” But the other cried, “No, no! I will go to the very end. I have a duty to perform, and I will not be stopped by the sensibility of your nerves.” He went on reading: “‘Of the upper lip not a trace was left; the ridge of the upper gums appeared perfectly bare.’” But then at the young man’s protests, his resolution failed him. “Come,” he said, “I will stop. I am sorry for you--you who accept for another person, for the woman you say you love, the chance of a disease which you cannot even endure to hear described. Now, from whom did that woman get syphilis? It is not I who am speaking, it is the book. ‘From a miserable scoundrel who was not afraid to enter into matrimony when he had a secondary eruption.’ All that was established later on--‘and who, moreover, had thought it best not to let his wife be treated for fear of awakening her suspicions!’” The doctor closed the book with a bang. “What that man has done, sir, is what you want to do.” George was edging toward the door; he could no longer look the doctor in the eye. “I should deserve all those epithets and still more brutal ones if I should marry, knowing that my marriage would cause such horrors. But that I do not believe. You and your teachers--you are specialists, and consequently you are driven to attribute everything to the disease you make the subject of your studies. A tragic case, an exceptional case, holds a kind of fascination for you; you think it can never be talked about enough.” “I have heard that argument before,” said the doctor, with an effort at patience. “Let me go on, I beg you,” pleaded George. “You have told me that out of every seven men there is one syphilitic. You have told me that there are one hundred thousand in Paris, coming and going, alert, and apparently well.” “It is true,” said the doctor, “that there are one hundred thousand who are actually at this moment not visibly under the influence of the disease. But many thousands have passed into our hospitals, victims of the most frightful ravages that our poor bodies can support. These--you do not see them, and they do not count for you. But again, if it concerned no one but yourself, you might be able to argue thus. What I declare to you, what I affirm with all the violence of my conviction, is that you have not the right to expose a human creature to such chances--rare, as I know, but terrible, as I know still better. What have you to answer to that?” “Nothing,” stammered George, brought to his knees at last. “You are right about that. I don’t know what to think.”