At this period the door opened and Doctor Barnabé entered. He was a little feeble old man, with a mild and calm countenance. His white hair was tied behind in a queue of the old style. A sprinkling of powder covered his temples as well as his forehead, which was furrowed with wrinkles. He wore a black coat, and breeches with steel buckles. On one arm hung a great-coat, lined with puce colored taffeta. The other hand held a large cane and his hat. The _toute-ensemble_ of the toilette of the village doctor gave evidence that he had that day taken great pains with his dress; but his black stockings and coat were covered with large splashes of mud, as though the poor old man had fallen into some ditch. He stopped short on the threshold of the door, astonished at finding himself in so large a company. A slight embarrassment was depicted for a moment on his features, but he recovered himself and bowed without speaking. At this strange entrance the guests were seized with a great desire to laugh, which they repressed as well as they could. Madame de Moncar alone, who could not, as the mistress of the house, be wanting in politeness, remained serious. “Goodness! doctor, have you been upset?” she asked. Doctor Barnabé, before answering, glanced at the company around him, and however plain and naïve his countenance might be, it was impossible for him not to detect the hilarity caused by his arrival. He answered tranquilly, “I was not upset. A poor wagoner had fallen under the wheels of his car, I was passing by and assisted him.” And the doctor made toward the chair which had been left empty for him. He took his napkin, unfolded it, passed one end through the button-hole of his coat, and spread the rest over his breast and knees. At this _début_, numerous smiles played on the lips of the guests, and some titters broke the silence. This time the doctor did not raise his eyes, perchance did not notice. “Are there many sick in the village?” said Madame de Moncar, whilst the new comer was being helped. “Yes, madame, many.” “The country, then, is unhealthy?” “No, madame.” “But from what do these diseases proceed, then?” “From the great heat during the harvests, and the cold and damp in winter.” Here one of the guests, assuming great gravity, mingled in the conversation. “Then, sir, in this healthy place they are sick all the year round?” The doctor raised his eyes to his questioner, looked at him, hesitated, and seemed to be suppressing or seeking for an answer. Madame de Moncar kindly came to his assistance. “I know,” said she, “that you are the savior here of all who suffer.” “O! you are too good,” the old man replied, and he appeared deeply occupied in a slice of _paté_ he had just helped himself to. Doctor Barnabé was now left to himself and the conversation went on as before.