“Go to bed, my little son, since you have got hashed,” said she.—­“Bed be hanged,” cried he.  “What good is bed?  That’s a silly old custom wants doing away with.  It weakens you:  it turns you into train oil:  it is the doctor’s friend, and the sick man’s bane.  Many a one dies through taking to bed, that could have kept his life if he had kept his feet like a man.  If I had cut myself in two I would not go to bed,—­till I go to the bed with a spade in it.  No! sit up like Julius Caesar; and die as you lived, in your clothes:  don’t strip yourself:  let the old women strip you; that is their delight laying out a chap; that is the time they brighten up, the old sorceresses.”  He concluded this amiable rhapsody, the latter part of which was levelled at a lugubrious weakness of his grandmother’s for the superfluous embellishment of the dead, by telling her it was bad enough to be tied by the foot like an ass, without settling down on his back like a cast sheep.  “Give me the armchair.  I’ll sit in it, and, if I have any friends, they will show it now:  they will come and tell me what is going on in the village, for I can’t get out to see it and hear it, they must know that.”

Seated in state in his granny’s easy-chair, the loss of which after thirty years’ use made her miserable, she couldn’t tell why, le Sieur Dard awaited his friends.

They did not come.

The rain did, and poured all the afternoon.  Night succeeded, and solitude.  Dard boiled over with bitterness.  “They are a lot of pigs then, all those fellows I have drunk with at Bigot’s and Simmet’s.  Down with all fair-weather friends.”

The next day the sun shone, the air was clear, and the sky blue.  “Ah! let us see now,” cried Dard.

Alas! no fellow-drinkers, no fellow-smokers, came to console their hurt fellow.  And Dard, who had boiled with anger yesterday, was now sad and despondent.  “Down with egotists,” he groaned.

About three in the afternoon came a tap at the door.

“Ah! at last,” cried Dard:  “come in!”

The door was slowly opened, and two lovely faces appeared at the threshold.  The demoiselles De Beaurepaire wore a tender look of interest and pity when they caught sight of Dard, and on the old woman courtesying to them they courtesied to her and Dard.  The next moment they were close to him, one a little to his right, the other to his left, and two pair of sapphire eyes with the mild lustre of sympathy playing down incessantly upon him.  How was he?  How had he slept?  Was he in pain?  Was he in much pain? tell the truth now.  Was there anything to eat or drink he could fancy?  Jacintha should make it and bring it, if it was within their means.  A prince could not have had more solicitous attendants, nor a fairy king lovelier and less earthly ones.