"Monsieur le Comte, I crave your pardon," said the doctor, coming up to the patient with open arms; "but I have a reproach to make you—you shall hear me." And he seated himself by the pillow of Athos, who had great trouble in rousing himself from his preoccupation.
"What is the matter, doctor?" asked the comte, after a silence.
"Why, the matter is, you are ill, monsieur, and have had no advice."
"I! ill!" said Athos, smiling.
"Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, Monsieur le Comte."
"Weakness!" replied Athos; "is that possible? I do not get up."
"Come, come, M. le Comte, no subterfuges; you are a good Christian?"
"I hope so," said Athos.
"Would you kill yourself?"
"Never, doctor."