The Abbé Mascarolus smiled softly, and bore these innocent railleries with Christian resignation, and no longer tried to defend an empiricism which, no doubt, may find analogies in medical books of the present day. Raimond V. took leave of the pharmacy to find pleasure elsewhere, when Laramée, majordomo and master of ceremonies, came to announce that supper had been waiting a long time. Laramée, the advance guard of the baron’s escort through the gorges of Ollioules, had the physiognomy of a real pandour; his complexion reddened by wine-drinking, his rough voice, his white and closely cut hair, his long gray moustache, and his continual swearing, were by no means to the taste of Dulceline. She received the entrance of the majordomo into the sanctuary of the abbé with a sort of muttered remonstrance, which at last changed to sharp and loud complaint, when she saw that Laramée had the indiscretion to approach the veil which covered the mysterious cradle and try to lift it. “Well, well, Laramée,” said the baron, “Manjour, do you claim more privileges than your master, and insist upon seeing the wonders that Dulceline is hiding from our eyes? Come, come, take this lamp and light onr way.” Then, turning to Mascarolus, Raimond V. said humorously: “Since, according to your fine book, wood-lice will cure dropsy in nightingales, you ought to try your remedy on this old scoundrel, who surely is threatened with dropsy, for he is a veritable old bottle, swollen with wine, ready to burst; as for the rest, like the nightingale, he will sing at night,--and the devil knows what songs!” “Yes, monseigneur, and with a voice loud enough to wake the whole castle, and make the owls fly from the top of the old tower,” added Dulceline. “And just as true as I drank two glasses of Sauvechrétien wine this morning, screech owls know the owls, Dulceline, my dear,” said the majordomo with a jocose manner as he passed, lamp in hand, before the superintendent of the laundry. “Monseigneur,” cried she, “do you hear the insolence of Master Laramée?” “And you shall be avenged, my dear, for I will make him drink a pint of water to your health. Come, come, go on, majordomo, the soup will get cold.” The baron, Reine, and the abbé left the pharmacy and descended the stairs, and crossed the long and dark gallery which united the two wings of Maison-Forte; they entered a large dining-room, brilliantly lighted by a good fire of beech, olive roots, and fir-apples, which shed through the whole room the odour of balsam. The immense chimney, with a large stone mantel, and andirons of massive iron, smoked a little, but by way of compensation, the windows latticed with lead, and the heavy doors of oak were not hermetically sealed, and the smoke found a way of escape through the numerous openings. The north wind, entering these cracks, made a shrill whistle, which was victoriously combatted by the merry crackling of the beech and olive logs which burned in the fireplace.