"Ah, Monsieur est médecin lui-même," cried the doctor, making a succession of bows in his politeness. "That will facilitate our understandings, sare. Has Madame the good--the bonne santé de l'ordinaire?" he continued, coming to a breakdown himself.
"Santé de l'ordinaire!--I wonder what that is," debated Mark within himself. "Vin ordinaire means thin claret, I know. I no comprendre, Messeu," he confessed aloud. "Ma femme eats and drinks everything."
"Is Madame--je ne trouve pas le mot, moi--is she saine, I would ask?"
"San?" repeated the puzzled Mark. "Why, you never mean sane, surely!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "She's as sane as you or I. What on earth put that in your head, Messeu? she doesn't look mad, I hope!"
"I no say mad," disclaimed Messeu. "I ask if she--ah, voilà le mot, quel bonheur!--if she healthy?--if she partake of the good constitution?"
A recollection flashed across Mark Cray's memory of a doubt he had once heard drop from Dr. Davenal as to whether Caroline's constitution was a healthy one. "Elle a porté très bien," was his answer to Monsieur, plunging into his French again. "This mayn't be anything, you know, Messeu."
"I not like these boutons though, sare."
"Which buttons," demanded Mark.
"The buttons you do me the honour to consult for. Je ne les aime pas, soit clou, soit tumeur--n'importe pour l'espèce. In the place you indicate to me it is like to be a tumeur, and she is obstinate."
"Who is, Messeu?" asked Mark, in doubt whether the incomprehensible Frenchman did not allude to his wife's temper.