After seven years of heroic perseverance, Herve has secured at last a circle of patients who pay him.  During this he lived and paid the exorbitant interest of his debt, but he is getting on.  Three or four pamphlets, and a prize won without much intrigue, have attracted public attention to him.  But he is no longer the brave young enthusiast, full of the faith and hope that attended him on his first visits.  He still wishes, and more than ever, to acquire distinction, but he no longer expects any pleasure from his success.  He used up that feeling in the days when he had not wherewith to pay for his dinner.  No matter how great his fortune may be in the days to come, he has already paid too dearly for it.  For him future success is only a kind of revenge.  Less than thirty-five years old, he is already sick of the world, and believes in nothing.  Under the appearance of universal benevolence he conceals universal scorn.  His finesse, sharpened by the grindstone of adversity, has become mischievous.  And, while he sees through all disguises worn by others, he hides his penetration carefully under a mask of cheerful good nature and jovialness.  But he is kind, he loves his friends, and is devoted to them.

He arrived, hardly dressed, so great had been his haste.  His first words on entering were, “What is the matter?”

Noel pressed his hand in silence, and by way of answer, pointed to the bed.  In less than a minute, the doctor seized the lamp, examined the sick woman, and returned to his friend.  “What has happened?” he asked sharply.  “It is necessary I should know.”

The advocate started at the question.  “Know what?” stammered he.

“Everything!” answered Herve.  “She is suffering from inflammation of the brain.  There is no mistaking that.  It is by no means a common complaint, in spite of the constant working of that organ.  What can have caused it?  There appears to be no injury to the brain or its bony covering, the mischief, then, must have been caused by some violent emotion, a great grief, some unexpected catastrophe . . .”

Noel interrupted his friend by a gesture, and drew him into the embrasure of the window.  “Yes, my friend,” said he in a low tone, “Madame Gerdy has experienced great mental suffering, she has been frightfully tortured by remorse.  Listen, Herve.  I will confide our secret to your honour and your friendship.  Madame Gerdy is not my mother; she despoiled me, to enrich her son with my fortune and my name.  Three weeks ago I discovered this unworthy fraud; she knows it, and the consequences terrify her.  Ever since, she has been dying minute by minute.”

The advocate expected some exclamations of astonishment, and a host of questions from his friend; but the doctor received the explanation without remark, as a simple statement, indispensable to his understanding the case.

“Three weeks,” he murmured; “then, that explains everything.  Has she appeared to suffer much during the time?”