“When did you see him?”

“This morning at seven.  He was so prodigiously tired of losing his time in his garret at the Red Lamb, that it occurred to him to pretend illness, and to send for me.  I went, and found a kind of street-minstrel, who seemed to me to be perfectly well.  But, as soon as we were alone, he told me all about it, asking me my opinion, and telling me his ideas.  M. Folgat, that man Goudar is very clever:  I tell you so; and we understand each other perfectly.”

“Has he told you what he proposes to do?”

“Nearly so.  But he has not authorized me to speak of it.  Have patience; let him go to work, wait, and you will see if old Seignebos has a keen scent.”

Saying this with an air of sublime conceit, he took off his spectacles, and set to work wiping them industriously.

“Well, I will wait,” said the young advocate.  “And, since that makes an end to my business here, I beg you will let me speak to you of another matter.  M. de Boiscoran has charged me with a message to the Countess Claudieuse.”

“The deuce!”

“And to try to obtain from her the means for our discharge.”

“Do you expect she will do it?”

M. Folgat could hardly retain an impatient gesture.

“I have accepted the mission,” he said dryly, “and I mean to carry it out.”

“I understand, my dear sir.  But you will not see the countess.  The count is very ill.  She does not leave his bedside, and does not even receive her most intimate friends.”

“And still I must see her.  I must at any hazard place a note which my client has confided to me, in her own hands.  And look here, doctor, I mean to be frank with you.  It was exactly because I foresaw there would be difficulties, that I came to you to ask your assistance in overcoming or avoiding them.”

“To me?”

“Are you not the count’s physician?”

“Ten thousand devils!” cried Dr. Seignebos.  “You do not mince matters, you lawyers!”

And then speaking in a lower tone, and replying apparently to his own objections rather than to M. Folgat, he said,—­

“Certainly, I attend Count Claudieuse, whose illness, by the way, upsets all my theories, and defies all my experience:  but for that very reason I can do nothing.  Our profession has certain rules which cannot be infringed upon without compromising the whole medical profession.”

“But it is a question of life and death with Jacques, sir, with a friend.”

“And a fellow Republican, to be sure.  But I cannot help you without abusing the confidence of the Countess Claudieuse.”

“Ah, sir!  Has not that woman committed a crime for which M. de Boiscoran, though innocent, will be arraigned in court?”

“I think so; but still”—­

He reflected a moment, and then suddenly snatched up his broad-brimmed hat, drew it over his head, and cried,—­

“In fact, so much the worse for her!  There are sacred interests which override every thing.  Come!”