“You don’t call this a hiding place, do you—­in his own bedchamber?” the doctor whispered.

“It is necessary, now, only to keep out of sight,” softly answered Honore.  “Agricole and some others ransacked this house one night last March—­the day I announced the new firm; but of course, then, he was not here.”

They entered, and the figure of Honore Grandissime, f.m.c., came into view in the centre of the farther room, reclining in an attitude of extreme languor on a low couch, whither he had come from the high bed near by, as the impression of his form among its pillows showed.  He turned upon the two visitors his slow, melancholy eyes, and, without an attempt to rise or speak, indicated, by a feeble motion of the hand, an invitation to be seated.

“Good morning,” said Doctor Keene, selecting a light chair and drawing it close to the side of the couch.

The patient before him was emaciated.  The limp and bloodless hand, which had not responded to the doctor’s friendly pressure but sank idly back upon the edge of the couch, was cool and moist, and its nails slightly blue.

“Lie still,” said the doctor, reassuringly, as the rentier began to lift the one knee and slippered foot which was drawn up on the couch and the hand which hung out of sight across a large, linen-covered cushion.

By pleasant talk that seemed all chat, the physician soon acquainted himself with the case before him.  It was a very plain one.  By and by he rubbed his face and red curls and suddenly said: 

“You will not take my prescription.”

The f.m.c. did not say yes or no.

“Still,”—­the doctor turned sideways in his chair, as was his wont, and, as he spoke, allowed the corners of his mouth to take that little satirical downward pull which his friends disliked, “I’ll do my duty.  I’ll give Honore the details as to diet; no physic; but my prescription to you is, Get up and get out.  Never mind the risk of rough handling; they can but kill you, and you will die anyhow if you stay here.”  He rose.  “I’ll send you a chalybeate tonic; or—­I will leave it at Frowenfeld’s to-morrow morning, and you can call there and get it.  It will give you an object for going out.”

The two visitors presently said adieu and retired together.  Reaching the bottom of the stairs in the carriage “corridor,” they turned in a direction opposite to the entrance and took chairs in a cool nook of the paved court, at a small table where the hospitality of Clemence had placed glasses of lemonade.

“No,” said the doctor, as they sat down, “there is, as yet, no incurable organic derangement; a little heart trouble easily removed; still your—­your patient—­”

“My half-brother,” said Honore.

“Your patient,” said Doctor Keene, “is an emphatic ‘yes’ to the question the girls sometimes ask us doctors—­Does love ever kill?’ It will kill him soon, if you do not get him to rouse up.  There is absolutely nothing the matter with him but his unrequited love.”