Honest Bavois was the first to suggest the idea of consulting a physician whom he had found in this land of savages.
Yes; he had found a really skilful physician in the neighborhood, a man of superior ability. Attached at one time to the beautiful court of Prince Eugene, he had been obliged to flee from Milan, and had taken refuge in this secluded spot.
This physician was summoned, and promptly made his appearance. He was one of those men whose age it is impossible to determine. His past, whatever it might have been, had wrought deep furrows on his brow, and his glance was as keen and piercing as his lancet.
After visiting the sick-room, he drew Maurice aside.
“Is this young lady really your wife, Monsieur—Dubois?”
He hesitated so strangely over this name, Dubois, that Maurice felt his face crimson to the roots of his hair.
“I do not understand your question,” he retorted, angrily.
“I beg your pardon, of course, but you seem very young for a married man, and your hands are too soft to belong to a farmer. And when I spoke to this young lady of her husband, she blushed scarlet. The man who accompanies you has terrible mustaches for a farmer. Besides, you must remember that there have been troubles across the frontier at Montaignac.”
From crimson Maurice had turned white. He felt that he was discovered—that he was in this man’s power.
What should he do?