"I'm not taking on. Death doesn't frighten me—I saw a funeral this morning, and I thought how happy the body was! How comes it that I think of nothing but death? Is it a disease? I have an idea that I shall die by my own hand."
The more Adolphe tries to divert Caroline, the more closely she wraps herself up in the crape of her hopeless melancholy. This second time, Adolphe stays at home and is wearied to death. At the third attack of forced tears, he goes out without the slightest compunction. He finally gets accustomed to these everlasting murmurs, to these dying postures, these crocodile tears. So he says:
"If you are sick, Caroline, you'd better have a doctor."
"Just as you like! It will end quicker, so. But bring a famous one, if you bring any."
At the end of a month, Adolphe, worn out by hearing the funereal air that Caroline plays him on every possible key, brings home a famous doctor. At Paris, doctors are all men of discernment, and are admirably versed in conjugal nosography.
"Well, madame," says the great physician, "how happens it that so pretty a woman allows herself to be sick?"
"Ah! sir, like the nose of old father Aubry, I aspire to the tomb—"
Caroline, out of consideration for Adolphe, makes a feeble effort to smile.
"Tut, tut! But your eyes are clear: they don't seem to need our infernal drugs."
"Look again, doctor, I am eaten up with fever, a slow, imperceptible fever—"