“Dear doctor, see what bad weather it is, how dull every thing looks; you are older than any of us, tell us a tale, that we may forget the rain, the fog and the cold.” The doctor seemed more astonished than ever. “This is no idle tale,” he said. “That which transpired in the white house is very simple, and can have no interest for any one but myself. Strangers would not credit such a story. And then I cannot descant at length when there are listeners. Besides, what I have to recount is sad, and you have come here to be amused.” And the doctor again leant his chin on his cane. “Dear doctor,” returned the countess, “the house shall stand if you will only narrate to us what has caused your love for it.” The old man seemed moved; he crossed and uncrossed his legs, felt for his snuff-box, replaced it in his pocket unopened, and turned to the countess. “You will not tear it down,” he said, pointing with his thin and trembling hand to the dwelling which was seen in the horizon. “I promise it you.” “Well, be it so then. I will do this much for them—I will preserve the house where they were happy. Ladies, I am no orator, yet I think the least learned may make himself understood, when relating that which he has seen. I tell you beforehand the story is not gay. We call a musician when we would dance or sing, a doctor when we are suffering or about to die.” A circle was formed round Doctor Barnabé, who, with his hands still crossed over the head of his cane, calmly began the following narrative, in the midst of an auditory that all the while fully intended to laugh at his recital. * * * * *