“’Rejoice, thou passer-by:  he whom we have buried here
     cannot live again.’”

.......................

I was wakened by a hand taking mine; and opening my eyes, I recognized the doctor.

After having felt my pulse, he nodded his head, sat down at the foot of the bed, and looked at me, rubbing his nose with his snuffbox.  I have since learned that this was a sign of satisfaction with the doctor.

“Well! so we wanted old snub-nose to carry us off?” said M. Lambert, in his half-joking, half-scolding way.  “What the deuce of a hurry we were in!  It was necessary to hold you back with both arms at least!”

“Then you had given me up, doctor?” asked I, rather alarmed.

“Not at all,” replied the old physician.  “We can’t give up what we have not got; and I make it a rule never to have any hope.  We are but instruments in the hands of Providence, and each of us should say, with Ambroise Pare:  ‘I tend him, God cures him!"’

“May He be blessed then, as well as you,” cried I; “and may my health come back with the new year!”

M. Lambert shrugged his shoulders.

“Begin by asking yourself for it,” resumed he, bluntly.  “God has given it you, and it is your own sense, and not chance, that must keep it for you.  One would think, to hear people talk, that sickness comes upon us like the rain or the sunshine, without one having a word to say in the matter.  Before we complain of being ill we should prove that we deserve to be well.”

I was about to smile, but the doctor looked angry.

“Ah! you think that I am joking,” resumed he, raising his voice; “but tell me, then, which of us gives his health the same attention that he gives to his business?  Do you economize your strength as you economize your money?  Do you avoid excess and imprudence in the one case with the same care as extravagance or foolish speculations in the other?  Do you keep as regular accounts of your mode of living as you do of your income?  Do you consider every evening what has been wholesome or unwholesome for you, with the same care that you bring to the examination of your expenditure?  You may smile; but have you not brought this illness on yourself by a thousand indiscretions?”

I began to protest against this, and asked him to point out these indiscretions.  The old doctor spread out his fingers, and began to reckon upon them one by one.

“Primo,” cried he, “want of exercise.  You live here like a mouse in a cheese, without air, motion, or change.  Consequently, the blood circulates badly, the fluids thicken, the muscles, being inactive, do not claim their share of nutrition, the stomach flags, and the brain grows weary.

“Secundo.  Irregular food.  Caprice is your cook; your stomach a slave who must accept what you give it, but who presently takes a sullen revenge, like all slaves.

“Tertio.  Sitting up late.  Instead of using the night for sleep, you spend it in reading; your bedstead is a bookcase, your pillows a desk!  At the time when the wearied brain asks for rest, you lead it through these nocturnal orgies, and you are surprised to find it the worse for them the next day.