"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.
Adolphe, very much alarmed, says to himself: "The doctor's right, she may get to be morbidly exacting, and then what will become of me? Here I am compelled to choose between Caroline's physical extravagance, or some young cousin or other."
Meanwhile Caroline sits down and sings one of Schubert's melodies with all the agitation of a hypochondriac.