The Young Doctor interjected with abrupt friendliness that there was no
need to say he had been in high places. It would still be apparent, if
he were in rags.

"Then, there, I will speak freely," rejoined Jean Jacques, and he took
the cherry-brandy which the other offered him, and drank it off with
gusto.

"Ah, that--that," he said, "is like the cordials Mere Langlois used to
sell at Vilray. She and Virginie Poucette had a place together on the
market--none better than Mere Langlois except Virginie Poucette, and she
was like a drink of water in the desert. . . . Well, there, I will
begin. Now my father was--"

It was lucky there were no calls for the Young Doctor that particular
early morning, else the course of Jean Jacques' life might have been
greatly different from what it became. He was able to tell his story
from the very first to the last. Had it been interrupted or unfinished
one name might not have been mentioned. When Jean Jacques used it, the
Young Doctor sat up and leaned forward eagerly, while a light came into
his face-a light of surprise, of revelation and understanding.

When Jean Jacques came to that portion of his life when manifest tragedy
began--it began of course on the Antoine, but then it was not manifest--
when his Carmen left him after the terrible scene with George Masson, he
paused and said: "I don't know why I tell you this, for it is not easy to
tell; but you saved my life, and you have a right to know what it is you
have saved, no matter how hard it is to put it all before you."