"Here," said she, folding the note, "you will do me the favor to give this to your friend Adele and have her send the concierge with it. And now to bed you go!" But Germinie refused to go to bed. It was not worth while. She would not tire herself. She would sit down all day. Besides, the worst of her sickness was over; she was getting better already. And then it always killed her to stay in bed. The doctor, summoned by mademoiselle's note, came in the evening. He examined Germinie, and ordered the application of croton oil. The trouble in the chest was of such a nature that he could say nothing about it until he had observed the effect of his remedies. He returned a few days later, sent Germinie to bed and sounded her chest for a long while. "It's a most extraordinary thing," he said to mademoiselle, when he went downstairs; "she has had pleurisy upon her and hasn't kept her bed for a moment! Is she made of iron, in Heaven's name? Oh! the energy of some women! How old is she?" "Forty-one." "Forty-one! Oh! it's not possible. Are you sure? She looks fully fifty." "Ah! as to that, she looks as old as you please. What can you expect? Never in good health,--always sick, disappointment, sorrow,--and a disposition that can't help tormenting itself." "Forty-one years old! it's amazing!" the physician repeated. After a moment's reflection, he continued: "So far as you know, is there any hereditary lung trouble in her family? Has she had any relatives who have died young?" "She lost a sister by pleurisy; but she was older. She was forty-eight, I think." The doctor had become very grave. "However, the lung is getting freer," he said, in an encouraging tone. "But it is absolutely necessary that she should have rest. And send her to me once a week. Let her come and see me. And let her take a pleasant day for it,--a bright, sunny day." LIX Mademoiselle talked and prayed and implored and scolded to no purpose: she could not induce Germinie to lay aside her work for a few days. Germinie would not even listen to the suggestion that she should have an assistant to do the heavier work. She declared that it was useless, impossible; that she could never endure the thought of another woman approaching her, waiting upon her, attending to her wants; that it would give her a fever simply to think of such a thing as she lay in bed; that she was not dead yet; and she begged that she might be allowed to go on as usual, so long as she could put one foot before the other. She said it in such an affectionate tone, her eyes were so beseeching, her feeble voice was so humble and so passionate in making the request, that mademoiselle had not the courage to force her to accept an assistant. She simply called her a "blockhead," who believed, like all country-people, that a few days in bed means death.