“One moment, Monsieur—­my money you will find in that desk, as I have said; after paying my funeral and other expenses, you will, I think, find there is still the sum left that I have named in my letter.  I must beg of you to hand it over to my sister.  I can trust her so far, I believe; and I will not have my child a pauper on her hands, dependent on her charity for food and clothing; otherwise it might have been wiser—­however, it is too late now, and in two of three years much may happen.  One word more, and I have done.  I have no sort of claim on your kindness, Monsieur, but you have proved yourself a friend, and as such I would ask you not to lose sight of Madelon entirely.  She will be but a friendless little one when I am gone, and I have not much confidence in her aunt’s tender mercies.”

“You may depend upon it that I will not,” said Graham earnestly, and hardly thinking of the sort of responsibility he was accepting.

“Thank you; then that is all.  And now, Monsieur le Docteur, how long do you give me?”

“How long?” said Graham.

“Ah! how long to live?—­to-day, to-night, to-morrow?  How long, in short?”

Then Graham spoke plainly at last, without further reticence or concealment, so useless in the face of this indifference and levity, real or affected.

“M.  Linders,” he said, “the chance on which your recovery hangs is so slight, that I do not think it probable, hardly possible, that you can live over to-morrow.  Will you not try to understand this?”

There was something so wistful and kind and honest in Graham’s expression as he stood there, looking down on his patient, that M. Linders was touched, perhaps, for he held out his hand with a little friendly gesture; but even then he could not, or would not abandon his latest pose of dying en philosophe.

“I understand well enough,” he answered; “a man does not arrive at my age, mon ami, without having faced death more than once.  You think, perhaps, it has terrors for me?—­not at all; to speak frankly, pain has, but I do not suffer so much now.  That is a bad sign, perhaps.  Well, never mind, you have done your best for me, I know, and I thank you.  Except for that little regret that you know of as regards Legros and—­and Madelon, I am content that life should come to an end—­it is not too delightful in any case, and those that I cared for most did their best to spoil mine for me.  For people who believe in a hereafter, and choose to contemplate a doubtful future, adorned with flames and largely peopled with devils, I can imagine death to have its unpleasant side; but I look upon all such notions as unphilosophical in the extreme.  And now, Monsieur, I think I could sleep a little.  By-and-by, when Madelon awakes, I should like to see her.”