he has never given out his recipe,
hence he can tell whatever stories suit him. What is curious, anyway,
is that this system, thought out by a Roman count, a Catholic, has its
most important following and propaganda among Protestant pastors, whose
original asininity becomes abysmal in the unbelievable homilies which
accompany their essays on healing. Indeed, considered seriously, these
systems are a lot of wind. The truth is that in the art of healing we
grope along at hazard. Nevertheless, with a little experience and a
great deal of nerve we can manage so as not too shockingly to depopulate
the cities. Enough of that, old man, and now where have you been keeping
yourself?"

"Just what I was going to ask you. You haven't been to see me for over a
week."

"Well, just now everybody in the world is ill and I am racing around all
the time. By the way, I've been attending Chantelouve, who has a pretty
serious attack of gout. He complains of your absence, and his wife, whom
I should not have taken for an admirer of your books, of your last novel
especially, speaks to me unceasingly of them and you. For a person
customarily so reserved, she seems to me to have become quite
enthusiastic about you, does Mme. Chantelouve. Why, what's the matter?"
he exclaimed, seeing how red Durtal had become.

"Oh, nothing, but I've got to be going. Good night."

"Why, aren't you feeling well?"

"Oh, it's nothing, I assure you."

"Oh, well," said Des Hermies, knowing better than to insist. "Look at
this," and took him into the kitchen and showed him a superb leg of
mutton hanging beside the window. "I hung it up in a draft so as to get
some of the crass freshness out of it. We'll eat it when we have the
astrologer Gevingey to dine with us at Carhaix's. As I am the only
person alive who knows how to boil a _gigot a l'Anglaise_, I am going to
be the cook, so I shan't come by for you. You will find me in the tower,
disguised as a scullery maid."

Once outside, Durtal took a long breath. Well, well, his unknown was
Chantelouve's wife. Impossible! She had never paid the slightest
attention to him. She was silent and cold. Impossible! And yet, why had
she spoken that way to Des Hermies? But surely if she had wanted to see
him she would have come to his apartment, since they were acquaintances.
She would not have started this correspondence under a pseudonym--

"H. de Maubel!" he said suddenly, "why, Mme. Chantelouve's name is
Hyacinthe, a