ysician, who broke the fever with
quinine and reduced it in a few days, ordering Calyste to take exercise,
and find something to amuse him. The baron, on this, came out of his
apathy and recovered a little of his old strength; he grew younger as
his son seemed to age. With Calyste, Gasselin, and his two fine dogs,
he started for the forest, and for some days all three hunted. Calyste
obeyed his father and went where he was told, from forest to forest,
visiting friends and acquaintances in the neighboring chateaus. But the
youth had no spirit or gaiety; nothing brought a smile to his face; his
livid and contracted features betrayed an utterly passive being. The
baron, worn out at last by fatigue consequent on this spasm of exertion,
was forced to return home, bringing Calyste in a state of exhaustion
almost equal to his own. For several days after their return both father
and son were so dangerously ill that the family were forced to send,
at the request of the Guerande physician himself, for two of the best
doctors in Nantes.

The baron had received a fatal shock on realizing the change now so
visible in Calyste. With that lucidity of mind which nature gives to the
dying, he trembled at the thought that his race was about to perish. He
said no word, but he clasped his hands and prayed to God as he sat in
his chair, from which his weakness now prevented him from rising. The
father's face was turned toward the bed where the son lay, and he looked
at him almost incessantly. At the least motion Calyste made, a singular
commotion stirred within him, as if the flame of his own life were
flickering. The baroness no longer left the room where Zephirine sat
knitting in the chimney-corner in horrible uneasiness. Demands were
made upon the old woman for wood, father and son both suffering from the
cold, and for supplies and provisions, so that, finally, not being
agile enough to supply these wants, she had given her precious keys
to Mariotte. But she insisted on knowing everything; she questioned
Mariotte and her sister-in-law incessantly, asking in a low voice to
be told, over and over again, the state of her brother and nephew. One
night, when father and son were dozing, Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel told
her that she must resign herself to the death of her brother, whose
pallid face was now the color of wax. The old woman dropped her
knitting, fumbled in her pocket for a while, and at length drew out
an old chaplet of black wood, on