“No, doctor, Cécile never has caprices. That would be horrible—to drive a knife into a man’s heart merely from caprice! I am sure she has reflected for a long time before she came to this decision. She knew that her love was my life, and that in tearing it up my life would also perish. If she has done this, then it is because she knew well that it was her duty so to do. I ought to have expected it; I should have known that so great a happiness could not be for me.” He staggered to his feet. His friend took his hand. “Forgive me, my brave boy; I hoped to make you both happy.” “Do not reproach yourself. Tell her that I accept her decision. Last year,” he continued, “I began the only happy season of my life. I was born on that day, and to-day I die. But these few happy months I owe to you and to Cécile;” and the youth hurried away. “But you will breakfast with me,” said the doctor. “No; I should be too sad a guest.” He crossed the garden with a firm step, and went away without once looking back. Had he turned he would have seen, half hidden by the curtain of a window in the second story, a face as pale and agitated as his own. The girl extended her slender arms, and tears rained down her cheeks. The following days were sad enough. The little house that had for months been bright and gay, resumed its ancient mournful aspect. The doctor, much troubled, noticed that his granddaughter spent much of her time in her mother’s former room. Where Madeleine had formerly wept, her child now shed in turn her tears. “Would she die as did her mother?” The doctor asked himself, day after day, If she did not love Jack, why was she so sad? If she did love him, why had she refused him? The old man was sure that there was some mystery, something that he ought to know; but at the least question, Cécile ran away as if in fear. One night the bell rang a summons from a dying man. It was the husband of old Salé, who had met with an accident. These people lived near Aulnettes, in a miserable little hole, and on a straw bed in the corner lay the sick man. When Dr. Rivals entered the place he was nearly suffocated by the odor of burning herbs. “What have you been doing here, Mother Salé?” he said. The old woman hesitated, and wished to tell a falsehood; he gave her no time, however. “So Hirsch is here again, is he?” he continued. “Open the doors and windows, you will be suffocated.” While M. Rivals bent over the sick man, he half opened his eyes. “Tell him, wife, tell him,” he muttered. The old woman paid no attention, and the man began again: “Tell him, I say, tell him.” The doctor looked at Mother Salé, who turned a deep scarlet. “I am sure I am very sorry if I said anything to hurt the feelings of such a good young lady,” she muttered. “What young lady? Of whom do you speak?” asked the doctor, turning hastily around. “Well, sir, I will tell you the truth. The mad doctor gave me twenty francs to tell Mamselle Cécile the story of her father and mother.”