"Be wise enough," cried M. Courtois, "to moderate your just anger;
be calm; be dignified."

"Surely," continued Dr. Gendron, "your apothecary is an intelligent
man; but you have at Orcival a fellow who quite outdoes him, a
fellow who knows how to make money; one Robelot--"

"Robelot, the bone-setter?"

"That's the man. I suspect him of giving consultations, and
prescribing sub rosa. He is very clever. In fact I educated him.
Five or six years ago, he was my laboratory boy, and even now I
employ him when I have a delicate operation on hand--"

The doctor stopped, struck by the alteration in the impassible
Plantat's features.

"What is the matter, my friend?" he asked. "Are you ill?"

The judge left his notes, to look at him. "Why," said he, "Monsieur
Plantat is very pale--"

But M. Plantat speedily resumed his habitual expression.

"'Tis nothing," he answered, "really nothing. With my abominable
stomach, as soon as I change my hour of eating--"

Having reached his peroration, M. Courtois raised his voice.

"Return," said he, "to your peaceable homes, your quiet avocations.