He knew from the gossip of the antechamber—­in the case of his regular clients the doctor did not disdain this—­he knew that the duke had a new favourite, that this caprice of recent date possessed him, excited him in an extraordinary measure, and the fact, taken together with other observations made elsewhere, had implanted in Jenkins’s mind a suspicion, a mad desire to know the name of this new mistress.  It was this that he was trying to read on the pale face of his patient, attempting to fathom the depth of his thoughts rather than the origin of his malady.  But he had to deal with one of those faces which are hermetically sealed, like those little coffers with a secret spring which hold jewels and women’s letters, one of those discreet natures closed by a cold, blue eye, a glance of steel by which the most astute perspicacity may be baffled.

“You are mistaken, doctor,” replied his excellency tranquilly.  “I have made no changes in my habits.”

“Very well, M. le Duc, you have done wrong,” remarked the Irishman abruptly, furious at having made no discovery.

And then, feeling that he was going too far, he gave vent to his bad temper and to the severity of his diagnosis in words which were a tissue of banalities and axioms.  One ought to take care.  Medicine was not magic.  The power of the Jenkins pearls was limited by human strength, by the necessities of age, by the resources of nature, which, unfortunately, are not inexhaustible.  The duke interrupted him in an irritable tone: 

“Come, Jenkins, you know very well that I don’t like phrases.  I am not all right, then?  What is the matter with me?  What is the reason of this chilliness?”

“It is anaemia, exhaustion—­a sinking of the oil in the lamp.”

“What must I do?”

“Nothing.  An absolute rest.  Eat, sleep, nothing besides.  If you could go and spend a few weeks at Grandbois.”

Mora shrugged his shoulders: 

“And the Chamber—­and the Council—­and—?  Nonsense! how is it possible?”

“In any case, M. le Duc, you must put the brake on; as somebody said, renounce absolutely—­”

Jenkins was interrupted by the entry of the servant on duty, who, discreetly, on tiptoe, like a dancing-master, came in to deliver a letter and a card to the Minister of State, who was still shivering before the fire.  At the sight of that satin-gray envelope of a peculiar shape the Irishman started involuntarily, while the duke, having opened and glanced over his letter, rose with new vigor, his cheeks wearing that light flush of artificial health which all the heat of the stove had not been able to bring there.

“My dear doctor, I must at any price—­”

The servant still stood waiting.

“What is it?  Ah, yes; this card.  Take the visitor to the gallery.  I shall be there directly.”

The gallery of the Duke de Mora, open to visitors twice a week, was for himself, as it were, a neutral ground, a public place where he could see any one without binding or compromising himself in any way.  Then, the servant having withdrawn: