he knew well that death was the
inevitable end. That he had held it in check for months ought then to
have consoled him and soothed his remorse, still unassuaged, for having
involuntarily caused the death of Lafouasse, a few weeks sooner than it
would otherwise have occurred. But this did not seem to be the case,
and his brow was knitted in a frown as they returned to their beloved
solitude. But there a new emotion awaited him; sitting under the plane
trees, whither Martine had sent him, he saw Sarteur, the hatter,
the inmate of the Tulettes whom he had been so long treating by his
hypodermic injections, and the experiment so zealously continued seemed
to have succeeded. The injections of nerve substance had evidently given
strength to his will, since the madman was here, having left the asylum
that morning, declaring that he no longer had any attacks, that he was
entirely cured of the homicidal mania that impelled him to throw himself
upon any passer-by to strangle him. The doctor looked at him as he
spoke. He was a small dark man, with a retreating forehead and aquiline
features, with one cheek perceptibly larger than the other. He was
perfectly quiet and rational, and filled with so lively a gratitude that
he kissed his saviour's hands. The doctor could not help being greatly
affected by all this, and he dismissed the man kindly, advising him to
return to his life of labor, which was the best hygiene, physical and
moral. Then he recovered his calmness and sat down to table, talking
gaily of other matters.

Clotilde looked at him with astonishment and even with a little
indignation.

"What is the matter, master?" she said. "You are no longer satisfied
with yourself."

"Oh, with myself I am never satisfied!" he answered jestingly. "And with
medicine, you know--it is according to the day."

It was on this night that they had their first quarrel. She was angry
with him because he no longer had any pride in his profession. She
returned to her complaint of the afternoon, reproaching him for not
taking more credit to himself for the cure of Sarteur, and even for the
prolongation of Valentin's life. It was she who now had a passion for
his fame. She reminded him of his cures; had he not cured himself? Could
he deny the efficacy of his treatment? A thrill ran through him as
he recalled the great dream which he had once cherished--to combat
debility, the sole cause of disease; to cure suffering humanity; to make
a higher