“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Very good.’
“Down I go to the yard to wash myself at the pump. You may imagine that after this business I wanted a bit of a wash. I strip myself to the waist, and I rub myself with soft soap for, maybe, a quarter of an hour. I dress myself again. I drink a glass of white wine that they bring me in the yard. I see the grey dawn break, I hear the lark sing, and I go back to the sick man’s room. There it was dark. I shout in the direction of the bed: ‘Hey? That’s understood, isn’t it? Perfect stillness whilst waiting for the new truss. The one you have is no good at all. D’you hear?’ No answer. ‘Are you asleep?’ Then I hear behind me the voice of the old nurse: ‘Doctor, our man’s no longer in the house,’ she tells me. ‘He was wearying to go out to his vines.’”
“There I recognise my peasants,” said M. de Terremondre.
He lapsed into meditation and resumed:
“Doctor, Pauline Giry is now forty-nine. She made her début at the Vaudeville in 1876; she was then twenty-two. I am sure of it.”
“In that case,” said the doctor, “she would be in her forty-third year, since we are now in 1897.”
“It isn’t possible,” said M. de Terremondre, “for she is at least six years older than Rose Max, who has certainly passed her fortieth year.”
“Rose Max? I don’t say no, but she is still a fine woman,” said the doctor.
He yawned, stretched himself, and said: