"Here," said she, folding the note, "you will do me the favor to give this to your friend Adèle and have her send the concierge with it. And now to bed you go!"
But Germinie refused to go to bed. It was not worth while. She would not tire herself. She would sit down all day. Besides, the worst of her sickness was over; she was getting better already. And then it always killed her to stay in bed.
The doctor, summoned by mademoiselle's note, came in the evening. He examined Germinie, and ordered the application of croton oil. The trouble in the chest was of such a nature that he could say nothing about it until he had observed the effect of his remedies.
He returned a few days later, sent Germinie to bed and sounded her chest for a long while.
"It's a most extraordinary thing," he said to mademoiselle, when he went downstairs; "she has had pleurisy upon her and hasn't kept her bed for a moment! Is she made of iron, in Heaven's name? Oh! the energy of some women! How old is she?"
"Forty-one."
"Forty-one! Oh! it's not possible. Are you sure? She looks fully fifty."
"Ah! as to that, she looks as old as you please. What can you expect? Never in good health,—always sick, disappointment, sorrow,—and a disposition that can't help tormenting itself."
"Forty-one years old! it's amazing!" the physician repeated.
After a moment's reflection, he continued: