what he required to make
his toilet in bed, a whole outfit of silver and crystal in striking
contrast with the yellow pallor of the invalid.

"Look you, Jenkins--the duke is very ill."

"I am afraid so," said the Irishman, in an undertone.

"What's the matter with him?"

"What he apparently wanted, _parbleu_!" exclaimed the other, in a sort
of frenzy. "A man can't be young with impunity at his age. This passion
of his will cost him dear."

Some evil thought triumphed in him for the moment, but he instantly
imposed silence upon it, and, completely transformed, puffing out his
cheeks as if his head were filled with water, he sighed profoundly as he
pressed the old nobleman's hands:

"Poor duke! Poor duke! Ah! my friend, I am in despair."

"Have a care, Jenkins," said Monpavon coldly, withdrawing his hands.
"You are assuming a terrible responsibility. What! the duke is as ill as
you say, ps--ps--ps. See no one? No consultation?"

The Irishman threw up his arms as if to say: "What's the use?"

The other insisted. It was absolutely essential that Brisset, Jousselin,
Bouchereau, all the great men should be called in.

"But you will frighten him to death."

Monpavon inflated his breast, the old foundered charger's only pride.

"My dear fellow, if you had seen Mora and myself in the trenches at
Constantine--ps--ps--Never lowered our eyes--Don't know what fear means.
Send word to your confreres, I will undertake to prepare him."

The consultation took place that evening behind closed doors, the duke
having demanded that it be kept secret through a curious feeling of
shame because of his illness, because of the suffering that dethroned
him and reduced him to the level of other men. Like those African kings
who conceal themselves in the depths of their palaces to die, he would
have liked the world to believe that he had been taken away,
transfigured, had become a god. Then, too, above all, he dreaded the
compassion, the condolence, the emotion with which he knew that his
pillow would be surrounded, the tears that would be shed, because he
would suspect that they were insincere, and because, if sincere, they
would offend him even more by their grimacing ugliness.

He had always detested scenes, exaggerated sentiments, whatever was
likely to move him, to disturb the harmonious equilibrium of his life.
Everybody about him was aware of it and the orders were to keep at a
distance all the cases of distress, all the desp