“Well,” said he, “it is rather hard, I admit, but it is a necessity. Now listen: you are the invalid, and I am the doctor charged to cure you; if I cut to the quick, you will have to endure it. It is the only way to save you.” “Cut away then, monsieur,” answered Prosper. “Well, we will hurry, for time passes. You have a friend, M. de Lagors?” “Raoul? Yes, monsieur, he is an intimate friend.” “Now tell me, who is this fellow?” The term “fellow” seemed to offend Prosper. “M. de Lagors, monsieur,” he said, haughtily, “is M. Fauvel’s nephew; he is a wealthy young man, handsome, intelligent, cultivated, and the best friend I have.” “Hum!” said M. Verduret, “I shall be delighted to make the acquaintance of one adorned by so many charming qualities. I must let you know that I wrote him a note in your name asking him to come here, and he sent word that he would be here directly.” “What! do you suppose--” “Oh, I suppose nothing! Only I must see this young man. Also, I have arranged and will submit to you a little plan of conversation--” A ring at the front door interrupted M. Verduret. “Sacrebleu! adieu to my plan; here he is! Where can I hide so as to hear and see?” “There, in my bedroom; leave the door open and the curtain down.” A second ring was heard. “Now remember, Prosper,” said M. Verduret in a warning tone, “not one word to this man about your plans, or about me. Pretend to be discouraged, helpless, and undecided what to do.” And he disappeared behind the curtain, as Prosper ran to open the door. Prosper’s portrait of M. de Lagors had not been an exaggerated one. So handsome a face and manly a figure could belong only to a noble character. Although Raoul said that he was twenty-four, he appeared to be not more than twenty. He had a superb figure, well knit and supple; a beautiful white brow, shaded by soft chestnut curly hair, soft blue eyes which beamed with frankness. His first impulse was to throw himself into Prosper’s arms. “My poor, dear friend!” he said, “my poor Prosper!” But beneath these affectionate demonstrations there was a certain constraint, which, if it escaped the cashier, was noticed by M. Verduret. “Your letter, my dear Prosper,” said Raoul, “made me almost ill, I was so frightened by it. I asked myself if you could have lost your mind. Then I left everything, to fly to your assistance; and here I am.” Prosper did not seem to hear him; he was pre-occupied about the letter which he had not written. What were its contents? Who was this stranger whose assistance he had accepted? “You must not feel discouraged,” continued M. de Lagors: “you are young enough to commence life anew. Your friends are still left to you. I have come to say to you, Rely upon me; I am rich, half of my fortune is at your disposal.” This generous offer, made at a moment like this with such frank simplicity, deeply touched Prosper.