"May I be permitted to look at him?" he asked.
"With pleasure, monsieur le commissaire."
Monsieur Biron entered the chamber of death with a slow and methodical step as became his dignity as an officer of the law, and proceeded to place his hat and stick on a chair. "Yes, who can tell?" he said, shrugging his shoulders, and looking up at the doctor for some reply. "Well, well, we shall see n'est-ce pas?" and he shrugged his shoulders, as if he felt somehow that the law wanted remodelling in order to be able to deal with such cases. After a short pause he rose and shook hands with Villebois in rather a patronising way, and bowing profoundly, left the house in an uncertain frame of mind, but fully convinced that he had performed a most meritorious duty.
Another day, a few weeks later, Dr. Roux came in, and taking a careful note of everything, examined the thermometer which perpetually remained in Delapine's mouth. He compared it with the thermometer on the wall, which remained at a constant temperature of about 68° F. He compared the figures with the chart on which the daily temperature was entered. "This is very strange!" he exclaimed, and hastening out of the room he ran downstairs to see Villebois.
"Dr. Villebois, are you there? Pray come here at once," he called out breathlessly.
"What's the matter?" cried Villebois, laying down his pen, and looking up at Roux who ran up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder in a state of great excitement.
"Come at once and look, Delapine's temperature has risen to 82° Fahrenheit."
Villebois jumped out of his chair with a bound. "C'est une merveille," he said as he flew upstairs after Roux who happened to have just called.
"Is it really true ... what can it mean?" cried Roux in a state of great excitement. He ran up to the professor and examined the thermometer with impatience. "You are right, doctor, quite right. It stands exactly as you said at 82° F. There can be no doubt about that. But what does it mean?"