“Monseigneur,” said the doctor, respectfully, “it was no intentional neglect on my part. I consider it my duty to attend first to the most pressing cases, and I was well aware that Monsieur Pinot would prove efficient.”
“Oh, I know all about it. It was my nephew. Monsieur l’Abbé does not infrequently make a—hem—he makes mistakes,” said the Bishop, pulling himself up. “And now, my good M. Deshoulières, before we say any thing more, be kind enough to tell me how is the boy, and what is his name?”
“He is a little better,” said the doctor, smiling, “and he is the grandson of old André Triquet, the wood-cutter.”
“What does he most want?”
“Every thing.”
“Except a good doctor,” said Monseigneur, with a kind smile. “There he has the advantage of us all. Well, I must see to my rival’s comforts. And now for my next question. I do not receive much definite information: is it your opinion that the town is in a healthy condition?”
M. Deshoulières shook his head. “There have been fever cases clinging to it all the summer.”
“But they say that the cold weather will cure them.”
“The cold weather may undoubtedly check the results, but if the cause remains, I venture, Monseigneur, to predict a fierce epidemic for next year.”
“And the cause is—?”