"You came to my room at eight o'clock, not to wake me, for I was not asleep, but to get me out of bed. I dressed myself without any assistance from Germain. You asked me to accompany you to Dr. Auvray's; I refused; you insisted; then Germain aided you in tying my hands. I shall dismiss him this evening. I owe him thirteen days' wages; that is to say, thirteen francs, as I promised to pay him thirty francs a month. You, too, owe him something, as you are the cause of his losing his New Year's gift. Isn't this a tolerably clear statement of the facts? Do you still intend to try to make me out a lunatic? Ah, my dear uncle, let your better nature assert itself. Remember that my mother was your sister. What would my poor mother say if she saw me here? I bear you no ill-will, and everything can be amicably arranged. You have a daughter." "Ah, there it is again. You must certainly see that you are not in your right mind. I have a daughter--I? Why, I am a bachelor, as you know perfectly well." "You have a daughter--" repeated Francis, mechanically. "My poor nephew, listen to me a moment. Have you a cousin?" "A cousin? No, I have no cousin. Oh, you won't catch me there. I have no cousin, either male or female." "But I am your uncle, am I not?" "Yes; you are my uncle, of course, though you seem to have forgotten the fact this morning." "Then if I had a daughter, she would be your cousin; but as you have no cousin, I can have no daughter." "You are right, of course. I had the pleasure of meeting her at Ems last summer with her mother; I love her; I have reason to believe that she is not indifferent to me, and I have the honor to ask you for her hand in marriage." "Whose hand, may I ask?" "Your daughter's hand." "Just hear him," Morlot said to himself. "Dr. Auvray must certainly be very clever if he succeeds in curing him. I am willing to pay him six thousand francs a year for board and treatment. Six thousand francs from thirty thousand leaves twenty-four thousand. How rich I shall be! Poor Francis!" He seated himself again, and picked up a book that chanced to be lying on a table near him. "Calm yourself," he said soothingly, "and I will read you something. Try to listen. It may quiet you." Opening the volume, he read as follows: "'Monomania is opinionativeness on one subject; a persistent clinging to one idea; the supreme ascendency of a single passion. It has its origin in the heart. To cure the malady, the cause must be ascertained and removed. It arises generally from love, fear, vanity, overweening ambition or remorse, and betrays itself by the same symptoms as any other passion; sometimes by boisterousness, gaiety, and garrulousness; sometimes by extreme timidity, melancholy, and silence.'" As M. Morlot read on, Francis became more quiet, and at last appeared to fall into a peaceful slumber. "Bravo!" thought the uncle, "here is a triumph of medical skill already. It has put to sleep a man who was neither hungry nor sleepy!"