She was, in fact, sufficiently strong to conquer her weakness. She summoned all her resolution, and, paler than a statue, with set teeth and dry, glittering eyes, she approached the alcove. She stood there for a moment perfectly motionless, murmuring a few unintelligible words; but at last, crushed by her sorrow, she sank upon her knees beside the bed, buried her face in the counterpane and wept. Deeply moved by the sight of this despair, the servants held their breath, wondering how it would all end. It ended suddenly. The girl sprang from her knees, as if a gleam of hope had darted through her heart. “A physician!” she said, eagerly. “I have sent for one, mademoiselle,” replied M. Casimir. And hearing a voice and a sound of footsteps on the staircase, he added: “And fortunately, here he comes.” The doctor entered. He was a young man, although his head was almost quite bald. He was short, very thin, clean-shaven, and clad in black from head to foot. Without a word, without a bow, he walked straight to the bedside, lifted the unconscious man’s eyelids, felt his pulse, and uncovered his chest, applying his ear to it. “This is a serious case,” he said at the close of his examination. Mademoiselle Marguerite, who had followed his movements with the most poignant anxiety, could not repress a sob. “But all hope is not lost, is it, monsieur?” she asked in a beseeching voice, with hands clasped in passionate entreaty. “You will save him, will you not--you will save him?” “One may always hope for the best.” This was the doctor’s only answer. He had drawn his case of instruments from his pocket, and was testing the points of his lancets on the tip of his finger. When he had found one to his liking: “I must ask you, mademoiselle,” said he, “to order these women to retire, and to retire yourself. The men will remain to assist me, if I require help.” She obeyed submissively, but instead of returning to her own room, she remained in the hall, seating herself upon the lower step of the staircase near the door, counting the seconds, and drawing a thousand conjectures from the slightest sound. Meanwhile, inside the room, the physician was proceeding slowly, not from temperament however, but from principle. Dr. Jodon--for such was his name--was an ambitious man who played a part. Educated by a “prince of science,” more celebrated for the money he gained than for the cures he effected, he copied his master’s method, his gestures, and even the inflections of his voice. By casting in people’s eyes the same powder as his teacher had employed, he hoped to obtain the same results: a large practice and an immense fortune. In his secret heart he was by no means disconcerted by his patient’s condition; on the contrary, he did not consider the count’s state nearly as precarious as it really was.