The doctor spoke to Célestin, just a few words by way of introducing himself, and then drew out a watch to assist him in feeling her pulse. The watch had a large spider hand which went hopping along, making sixty hops to the minute. This spider hand deepened Garnier’s confidence, as did the binaural stethoscope which the doctor drew out of his breast pocket and swung about his neck. Garnier turned his face away whilst the physician unbuttoned Célestin’s nightdress at the neck. A moment he paused, as if undecided as to stripping her to the waist, Hôtel Dieu fashion, then shook his head, and, slipping the ear-pieces in his ears, began his auscultation. Garnier, standing with his face averted, heard the sparrows on the roof and an occasional pr-rt, pr-rt from Dodor’s cage, as the lark changed his perch, also a piano-organ, the thinnest of sounds fluctuating on the faint breeze blowing from the direction of the Seine. Sometimes Dr. Fénélon cleared his throat, or said “Pardon.” Then he began to percuss, and the little blows sounded as if against something solid. Garnier turned; the examination was over, and the doctor, the stethoscope swinging still from his neck, was buttoning the top button of the nightdress. This accomplished, he stood just for a second with hands folded, overlooking the patient from head to feet; one might almost have imagined him measuring her with his eye. Célestin, whose eyes had been half closed, suddenly opened them, and muttered something in an alarmed manner. “What is it?” “Fantoum,” she muttered, shrinking slightly as if from some vision in the air. The doctor led Garnier into the atelier, and by the way he closed the bedroom door Garnier knew that it was all up. “Your wife?” asked the doctor, removing the instrument from his neck and placing it folded in his breast-pocket. “Oh, no, the wife of a friend—simply that. Ah, my God! I fear she is worse than we thought.” “So then I can speak: she is moribund. I can absolutely do nothing. You understand? What can I do? One lung is gone. Well, then, the other is greatly touched at the apex—absolutely solid with pneumonia at the base. She is living by a piece of lung not so large as my hand. We cannot change all that.” “Can nothing be done?” “My dear friend, she is to all intents and purposes dead. She has been dying some time—probably since yesterday.” “Ah, I hear you say all that; you say she is dead. I have never heard a thing like that before so frightful. I have heard of doctors keeping people alive. Well, then, look: it is not the question of payment; it is not a question of one, two, three napoleons, but thousands! You are not speaking to a fool; I am a great painter. I have only to close my hands on the money, and half of what I earn is yours. I am Gustave Garnier; I never told a lie. Ask Melmenotte what I can do.” “My dear friend,” sighed Dr. Fénélon, “I would save her for nothing, but I am not God.” “Nothing can be done?” “Nothing.” “Brandy?”