"Now, tell me, O'Neill," he said, in the tone of commonplace conversation. "That doctor—the one that walked like a duck—he was impressive, eh?"
O'Neill sat down on the foot of the bed.
"He's the best man in Paris," he answered. "He did his best to be impressive. He thought we weren't taking your illness seriously enough."
"Well," said Regnault, his fingers fidgeting on the coverlet, "I can be serious when I like. I'm serious now, foi de gentilhomme. Did he say when I should die!"
"Yes," replied O'Neill. "He said you'd break like the stem of a pipe at the first strain."
Regnault's eyes were half closed. "Metaphor, eh?" he suggested dreamily.
"He said," continued O'Neill, "that you were not to move sharply, not to laugh or cry, not to be much amused or surprised—in fact, you were to keep absolutely quiet. He suggested, too, that you'd had your share of emotions, and would be better without them now."
Regnault smiled again. "Wonderful," he said softly. "They teach them all that in the hospitals. Then, in effect, I hold this appointment during good Conduct?"
"That's the idea," said O'Neill gravely.
There was a long pause; Regnault seemed to be thinking deeply. The amyl had brought color back to his face; except for the disorder of his long white hair he seemed to be his normal self.