In fact, D’Argenton, who greeted the physician in the most languid tones, soon forgot to keep up the farce in the pleasure of seeing a new face, which made a pleasant break in his monotonous life, and a few moments later beheld him launched on some dazzling episode of his Parisian life. The doctor saw no reason to doubt the truth of these narrations told in such measured and careful phrases, and was always pleased with the appearance of the family,—the intellectual husband, the pretty gay wife, and the amusing child; and no intuition gave him a hint, as might have been the case with a more delicate organization, of the peculiarity and bitterness of the ties which bound the household together. Often, therefore, on these bright midsummer days, the doctor’s horse was fastened to the palisades, while the old man drank the cool glass carefully mixed for him by Charlotte herself, and as he drank, he told of his wonderful adventures in India. Jack listened with eyes and ears wide open. “Jack!” said D’Argenton, peremptorily, and pointed to the door. “Let him stay, I beg of you; I like to have children around me. I am quite sure that your boy has discovered that I have a grandchild;” and the old man talked of his little Cécile, who was two years younger than Jack. “Bring her to see us, doctor,” said Charlotte; “the two children would be so happy together.” “Thank you, dear madame; but her grandmother would never consent. She never trusts the child to any one; and she herself never goes anywhere since our great sorrow.” This sorrow, of which the old doctor often spoke, was the loss of his daughter and his son-in-law within a year after their marriage. Some mystery surrounded this double catastrophe. Even Mother Archambauld, who knew everything, contented herself with saying, “Yes, poor things! they have had a great deal of trouble.” The only prescription given by the doctor was a verbal one, “Keep him amused, madame; keep him amused!” How could poor Charlotte do this? They went off together in a little carriage; breakfast, books, and a butterfly-net accompanied them to the forest; but he was bored to death. They bought a boat, but a tête-à-tête in the middle of the Seine was worse than one on shore; and the little boat soon lay moored at the landing, half full of water and dead leaves. Then the poet took to building; he planned a new staircase and an Italian terrace: but even this did not amuse him.