“From the great heat during the harvests, and the cold and damp in winter.”
Here one of the guests, assuming great gravity, mingled in the conversation. “Then, sir, in this healthy place they are sick all the year round?”
The doctor raised his eyes to his questioner, looked at him, hesitated, and seemed to be suppressing or seeking for an answer. Madame de Moncar kindly came to his assistance.
“I know,” said she, “that you are the savior here of all who suffer.”
“O! you are too good,” the old man replied, and he appeared deeply occupied in a slice of paté he had just helped himself to.
Doctor Barnabé was now left to himself and the conversation went on as before.
If their eyes fell by chance on the peaceful old man, it was to glance a slight sarcasm, which, coupled with the conversation, might, they thought, pass unnoticed by him who was the object of it; not that these young persons were habitually impolite, and possessed no goodness of heart; but the occasion itself, the journey, the preparation for breakfast, their meeting, the smiles which commenced with the events of the day, all led to an unseasonable gayety, an infectious spirit of ridicule, which rendered them relentless to the poor victim whom chance had thrown in their path. The doctor appeared to eat tranquilly, without raising his eyes, without even seeming to listen, or uttering a word; they began to treat him as one deaf and dumb, and the breakfast was finished without restraint.
When they rose from the table Doctor Barnabé stepped back a little, allowing each gentleman to choose the lady he wished to escort to the parlor. One being left alone he timidly advanced and offered her, not his arm, but his hand. The young lady’s fingers were scarcely grazed by those of the doctor, who, with an inclination of respect, proceeded with measured steps to the parlor. New smiles awaited this entrance, but no frown was seen on the old man’s brow, and they now declared him blind as well as deaf and dumb.
Dr. Barnabé, leaving his partner, sought the smallest and plainest chair in the room. He drew it apart from the rest of the party, seated himself, placed his cane between his knees, crossed his hands upon the pommel of the cane, and leaned his chin on his hands. He remained silent in this meditative posture, and from time to time closed his eyes, as though a sweet sleep which he neither courted nor shunned was about to overcome him.
“Madame de Moncar,” said one of the party, “you surely do not intend to reside among these ruins?”