“My dear sir,” says the great physician, “I have just prescribed very insufficiently for your wife. I did not wish to frighten her: this affair concerns you more nearly than you imagine. Don’t neglect her; she has a powerful temperament, and enjoys violent health; all this reacts upon her. Nature has its laws, which, when disregarded, compel obedience. She may get into a morbid state, which would cause you bitterly to repent having neglected her. If you love her, why, love her: but if you don’t love her, and nevertheless desire to preserve the mother of your children, the resolution to come to is a matter of hygiene, but it can only proceed from you!”
“How well he understand me!” says Caroline to herself. She opens the door and says: “Doctor, you did not write down the doses!”
The great physician smiles, bows and slips the twenty franc piece into his pocket; he then leaves Adolphe to his wife, who takes him and says:
“What is the fact about my condition? Must I prepare for death?”
“Bah! He says you’re too healthy!” cries Adolphe, impatiently.
Caroline retires to her sofa to weep.
“What is it, now?”
“So I am to live a long time—I am in the way—you don’t love me any more—I won’t consult that doctor again—I don’t know why Madame Foullepointe advised me to see him, he told me nothing but trash—I know better than he what I need!”
“What do you need?”
“Can you ask, ungrateful man?” and Caroline leans her head on Adolphe’s shoulder.