Like a cat over its prey, the young doctor leant across the mattress. Without looking round he took up the instruments he wanted, knowing the order in which they lay. He had been excellently taught. The noiseless movements of his white fingers were marvellously dexterous--neat, rapid, and finished. The evil-looking instruments gleamed and flashed beneath the gaslight. He had a peculiar little habit of wiping each one on his shirt-sleeve before and after use, leaving a series of thin red stripes there. After the lapse of a minute he raised his head, wiped something which he held in his fingers, and passed it across to the Provincial. “That is the bullet, my father,” he said, without ceasing his occupation, and without raising his eyes from the wounded man. “Will he live?” asked the Jesuit casually, while he examined the bullet. “If he tries, my father,” was the meaning reply. The young doctor was bandaging now, skilfully and rapidly. “This would be the death of a dog,” said the Provincial, as if musing aloud; for the surgeon was busy at his trade, and the tobacconist had withdrawn some time before. “Better than the life of a dog,” replied the Vicomte, in his smoothly mocking way, without opening his eyes. It was very easy to blame one woman, and to cast reflections upon the entire sex. If these brothers had not quarrelled about that woman, they would have fallen out over something else. Some men are so: they are like a strong spirit--light and yet potent--that floats upon the top of all other liquids and will mingle with none. It would seem that these two could not be in the same room without quarrelling. It was only with care that (as the Jesuit had coldly observed) they could exist in the same world without clashing. Never was the Vicomte d'Audierne so cynical, so sceptical, as in the presence of his brother. Never was Raoul d'Audierne so cold, so heartless, so Jesuitical, as when meeting his brother's scepticism. Sixteen years of their life had made no difference. They were as far apart now as on one grey morning sixteen years ago, when the Vicomte d'Audierne had hurried away from the deserted shore of the Côte du Nord, leaving his brother lying upon the sand with an ugly slit in his neck. That slit had healed now, but the scar was always at his throat, and in both their hearts.