"I should die." "You are mad." "My heart is here, brother; my life is here." Joyeuse crossed his arms with a mixture of anger and pity. "If our father," he said, "begged you to let yourself be attended by Miron, who is at once a philosopher and a doctor?" "I should reply to my father that I am well and that my brain is sound, and that Miron cannot cure love sickness." "Well, then, Henri, I must make the best of it. She is but a woman, and at my return I hope to see you more joyous than myself." "Yes, yes, my good brother, I shall be cured--I shall be happy, thanks to your friendship, which is my most precious possession." "After your love." "Before my life." Joyeuse, much touched, interrupted him. "Let us go, brother," said he. "Yes, brother, I follow you," said Du Bouchage, sighing. "Yes, I understand; the last adieux to the window; but you have also one for me, brother." Henri passed his arms round the neck of his brother, who leaned down to embrace him. "No!" cried he. "I will accompany you to the gates," and with a last look toward the window, he followed his brother. Chicot continued to watch. Gradually every one disappeared, and the street was deserted. Then one of the windows of the opposite house was opened, and a man looked out. "There is no longer any one, madame," said he; "you may leave your hiding-place and go down to your own room," and lighting a lamp, he gave it into a hand stretched out to receive it. Chicot looked earnestly, but as he caught sight of her pale but sublime face, he shuddered and sat down, entirely subjugated, in his turn, by the melancholy influence of the house. CHAPTER XVII. CHICOT'S PURSE. Chicot passed the remainder of the night dreaming in his armchair, for the face of that woman brought before him a number of illustrious shades connected with many happy or terrible souvenirs, and he who had regretted his sleep on first arriving, now thought no more of it. When morning dawned he got up, threw a cloak over his shoulders, and with the firmness of a sage, examined the bottom of his purse and his shoes. Chicot, a man of lively imagination, had made in the principal beam which ran through his house a cavity, a foot and a half long and six inches wide, which he used as a strong box, to contain 1,000 crowns in gold. He had made the following calculation: "I spend the twentieth part of one of these crowns every day; therefore I have enough to last me for 20,000 days. I cannot live so long as that, but I may live half as long, and as I grow older my wants and expenses will increase, and this will give me twenty-five or thirty good years to live, and that is enough." He was therefore tranquil as to the future.