“We will dine together, dearest,” said I, “but tell the surgeon to come in. I want to know what he has to say to me.”
The worthy man entered, and after looking carefully round the room to see that we were alone, he came up to me, and whispered in my ear that Le Duc had a malady of a shameful character.
I burst out laughing, as I had been expecting some terrible news.
“My dear doctor,” said I, “do all you can to cure him, and I will pay you handsomely, but next time don’t look so doleful when you have anything to tell me. How old are you?”
“Nearly eighty.”
“May God help you!”
I was all the more ready to sympathize with my poor Spaniard, as I expected to find myself in a like case.
What a fellow-feeling there is between the unfortunate! The poor man will seek in vain for true compassion at the rich man’s doors; what he receives is a sacrifice to ostentation and not true benevolence; and the man in sorrow should not look for pity from one to whom sorrow is unknown, if there be such a person on the earth.
My housekeeper came in to dress me, and asked me what had been the doctor’s business.
“He must have said something amusing to make you laugh.”