"At random you have touched me on the raw," he said, after a moment's silence. "Shall I tell you the strange, I might say the monstrous idea that has just come into my head?"
"Pray do. I am rather partial to monstrous ideas."
"It occurred to me that for the interest of my reputation, I ought to wish the projected duel to prove fatal to Bouchereau."
"Why so?" inquired the officer, with some surprise.
"Because if you don't kill him, in less than a year I shall have the credit of his death."
"I don't understand. Are you going to fight him?"
"Certainly not; but I am his physician, and as such, responsible for his existence in the eyes of the vast number of persons who expect medical science to give sick men the health that nature refuses them. Therefore, as Bouchereau, according to all appearance, has not a year to live——"
"What's the matter with him?" cried Pelletier, opening his great eyes.
"Consumption!" replied the Doctor, in a compassionate tone, "a chronic disease—quite incurable! I was about sending him to Nice. We, physicians, as you know, when we have exhausted the resources of medicine, send our patients to the waters or to the South. If nothing happens to him the day after to-morrow, he shall set out: God knows if he will ever return."
"Consumptive! he who is always as sallow as Debureau."