"Do you ever hear voices?" inquired Dr. Auvray.
Poor M. Morlot felt his hair stand on end, and remembering that relentless voice that was ever whispering in his ear, he replied mechanically, "Sometimes."
"Ah, he is the victim of an hallucination," murmured the doctor.
"No, there is nothing whatever the matter with me, I tell you. Let me get out of here. I shall be as crazy as my nephew if I remain much longer. Ask my friends. They will all tell you that I am perfectly sane. Feel my pulse. You can see that I have no fever."
"Poor uncle!" murmured Francis. "He doesn't know that insanity is delirium unattended with fever."
"Yes," added the doctor, "if we could only give our patients a fever, we could cure every one of them."
M. Morlot sank back despairingly in his armchair. His nephew began to pace the floor.
"I am deeply grieved at my uncle's deplorable condition," he remarked feelingly, "but it is a great consolation to me to be able to intrust him to the care of a man like yourself. I have read your admirable treatise on monomania. It is the most valuable work of the kind that has appeared since the publication of the great Esquirol's Treatise upon Mental Diseases. I know, moreover, that you are truly a father to your patients, so I will not insult you by commending M. Morlot to your special care. As for the compensation you are to receive, I leave that entirely to you."
As he spoke, he drew from his pocket-book a thousand-franc note and laid it on the mantel. "I shall do myself the honor to call again some time during the ensuing week. At what hour are your patients allowed to see visitors?"
"From twelve to two, only; but I am always at home. Good day, sir."