‘I had already considered the expediency of a trip, and I am pleased to find you of the same mind in this matter. But why Nice rather than any other town?’

‘I mean that the climate is very healthy, especially for people who have rather delicate chests.’

‘But I have an excellent chest—at least I suppose so,’ interrupted Bouchereau, and he questioned the doctor’s eye with a sort of uneasiness.

‘Doubtless; I am not saying the contrary,’ the doctor went on in a serious tone, ‘on that side I have no positive motive for the advice I am giving you. But precautions never do any harm, and it’s better to prevent the evil than to wait for it.’

‘You believe me, then, threatened with a chest complaint?’ said the worried man, turning pale. As could be seen, he professed the utmost attachment to his own person.

‘I have not said a word of that,’ answered Dr. Magnan, who had the air of reproaching himself internally for having said too much, ‘do you want to know why I pronounced the name of Nice? It is through egotism. It is possible that I am going there myself to spend a part of the winter; and if you were there, and your wife as well, my stay would certainly seem much more agreeable.’

‘Well we’ll see about that; the matter could be arranged,’ answered Bouchereau, and he left the doctor’s house even more anxious than he had entered it, for to the uneasiness which the prospect of a duel caused him, had just been added the no less lively fear of an often fatal illness, which he had not dreamt of until then.

At six o’clock in the evening, Dr. Magnan entered the Café Anglais where he was almost sure of meeting Pelletier. The captain of the general staff was already there in fact, seated all alone at a little table, and dining with a very good appetite, without watering his wine. He was a big, stout, vigorous fellow, square in the shoulders, slim in the haunches, with a firm eye, a shining moustache, a warmly coloured complexion, a muscular wrist: one of those men of martial bearing, who, if they are not soldiers, seem to have missed their vocation, and whose look alone imposes on the most forward of men some kind of restraint and modesty.

Other men than the livid Bouchereau would have regarded the fact of having a bone to pick with a lion like that as a veritable catastrophe.

The doctor and the officer greeted each other cordially, and, after having exchanged a few complimentary phrases, they dined, each at his own side. They left the table at the same time, met at the door, and, simultaneously offering each other an arm, they walked down the Boulevard on the side of the Madeleine.

‘Well, doctor,’ said Pelletier playfully, ‘have you found me what I’ve asked you for at least ten times; an amiable lady (maid or widow, dark or fair, little or big, it’s all the same to me), who would consent to make my happiness in joining her lot to mine. I only ask a hundred thousand crowns of dowry: deuce take me, I think I’m modest.’

‘Too modest! You are worth more than that.’

‘You’re laughing at me.’

‘Not at all: besides, the time would be ill-suited for joking, for I must consult with you about a serious matter, while we ’re waiting for the fiancée with a hundred thousand crowns. Bouchereau has charged me to speak to you.’

‘And you call that a serious matter?’ said the captain laughing disdainfully.

‘Every matter seems so to me when it can end in blood,’ said the doctor with an affected gravity.