"My wife is in robust health," replied Bouchereau, smiling bitterly.
"Then what is the cause of your agitation? The mind, say you? If you do not speak, how am I to tell what passes in yours? Come, how can I serve you?"
"My dear doctor," said the other, sitting down with a most dejected countenance, "we have known each other for twenty years. I look upon you as my best friend, and in you I have unlimited confidence."
"Well, well!" said the doctor—"enough of compliments."
"They are not compliments; I speak from my heart. And the strange confession I have resolved to make to you will be sufficient proof of my esteem for your character."
"To the point!" cried Magnian impatiently.
"The fact is melancholy for me, and may even appear ridiculous. That is why I hesitate. Promise me, in the first place, never to reveal what I am about to tell you."
"The secret of the confessional is as sacred for the physician as for the priest," said Doctor Magnian gravely.
Bouchereau again sighed, bit his lips, and gazed up at the ceiling. "You know Pelletier?" he at last said, looking piteously at his friend.
"The captain on the staff? Of course I do. Sanguine habit, short neck, more shoulders than brains, organisation of a bull! I have always predicted he would die of apoplexy."