“You are a lucky fellow,” said Labassandre. “Tomorrow I shall be in that hot, dusty town, eating a miserable dinner.”
“It is a good thing to be certain of having even a miserable dinner,” grumbled Dr. Hirsch.
“Why not remain here for a time?” said D’Argenton, cordially. “There is a room for each of you; the cellar has some good wine in it—”
“And we can make excursions,” interrupted Charlotte, gayly.
“But what would become of my rehearsals?” said Labassandre.
“But you, Dr. Hirsch,” continued Charlotte, “you are tied down to the opera-house!”
“Certainly not; and my patients are nearly all in the country at this season.”
The idea of Dr. Hirsch having any patients was very funny, and yet no one laughed.
“Well, decide!” cried the poet, “In the first place, you would be doing me a favor, and could prescribe for me.”
“To be sure. The physician here knows nothing of your constitution, while I can soon set you on your feet again. I am sick of the Institute and of Moronval, and never wish to see either more.” Thereupon the doctor launched forth in a philippic against the school which supported him. Moronval was a thorough humbug, he never paid anybody, and every one was giving him up; the affair of Mâdou had done him great injury; and finally Dr. Hirsch went so far as to compliment Jack on his energetic departure.