“_Ah, la! la! ma pauvre petite!_” Euphémie knew not what she was saying, but she went. She went to Bigourdin and told him that mademoiselle was in delirium, she had brain-fever, and if he wanted to save her reason, he must send at once for the doctor. The doctor came, diagnosed a chill on the vaguest of symptoms, and ordered _soupe à l’huile_. This invalid fare is a thin vegetable soup with a layer of salad oil floating on the top with the object of making the liquid slip gratefully down the gullet: the French gullet, be it understood. Félise, in spite of her lifelong French training, had so much of England lingering in her œsophagus, that it abhorred _soupe à l’huile_. The good doctor’s advice failed. She fasted in bed all day, declaring that, headache apart, she was perfectly well, and the following morning, a wraith of herself, arose and went about her ordinary avocations. “But what is the matter with her?” asked Bigourdin of Martin. “Nothing could have disagreed with her at that abominable dinner, because she didn’t eat anything.” As Martin could throw no light on the sudden malady of Félise, Bigourdin lit a cigarette and inhaled a huge puff. “It needs a woman, _voyez-vous_, to look after a young girl. Men are no good. There are a heap of secrets——” With his arms he indicated Mount Blanc piled on Mount Everest. “I shall be glad when she is well and duly married. Perhaps the approaching betrothal affects her. Women have nerves like that. She is anxious to know the result of the negotiations. At the present moment the Viriots are free to make or make not their demand. It would be good to reassure her a little. What do you think?” Martin gave utterance to the profound apophthegm: “There is nothing so upsetting as uncertainty.” “That is my idea!” cried Bigourdin. “Pardon me for consulting you on these details so intimate and a little sacred. But you have a clear intelligence and a loyal heart.” So it came to pass that, after _déjeuner_, Bigourdin took Félise into their own primly and plushily furnished salon, and, like an amiable bull in a boudoir, proceeded to smash up the whole of her universe. “There is no doubt,” he proclaimed, “Monsieur and Madame Viriot have dreamed of it for ten years. I give you a dowry—there is no merit in it, because I love you like my own daughter—but I give you a dowry such as there are not many in Périgord. Lucien loves you. He is _bon garçon_. It has never entered his head to think of another woman for his wife. It is all arranged. In two or three days—you must allow for the _convenances_—Monsieur Viriot and Lucien will call on me. So, my dear little angel, do not be afraid.” Félise had listened to this, white-faced and hollow-eyed. “But I don’t want to marry Lucien, _mon oncle_!” “_Comment?_ You don’t want to marry Lucien?” “No, _mon oncle_.” “But——” He swept the air with a protesting gesture. “I have already told you so,” said Félise.