“You are mistaken, doctor,” replied his excellency tranquilly. “I have made no changes in my habits.”
“Very well, M. le Duc, you have done wrong,” remarked the Irishman abruptly, furious at having made no discovery.
And then, feeling that he was going too far, he gave vent to his bad temper and to the severity of his diagnosis in words which were a tissue of banalities and axioms. One ought to take care. Medicine was not magic. The power of the Jenkins pearls was limited by human strength, by the necessities of age, by the resources of nature, which, unfortunately, are not inexhaustible. The duke interrupted him in an irritable tone:
“Come, Jenkins, you know very well that I don’t like phrases. I am not all right, then? What is the matter with me? What is the reason of this chilliness?”
“It is anaemia, exhaustion—a sinking of the oil in the lamp.”
“What must I do?”
“Nothing. An absolute rest. Eat, sleep, nothing besides. If you could go and spend a few weeks at Grandbois.”
Mora shrugged his shoulders:
“And the Chamber—and the Council—and—? Nonsense! how is it possible?”
“In any case, M. le Duc, you must put the brake on; as somebody said, renounce absolutely—”