“It is a little bit furred at the root:  but you have breakfasted—­” observes the great physician, turning toward Adolphe.

“Oh, a mere nothing,” returns Caroline; “two cups of tea—­”

Adolphe and the illustrious leech look at each other, for the doctor wonders whether it is the husband or the wife that is trifling with him.

“What do you feel?” gravely inquires the physician.

“I don’t sleep.”

“Good!”

“I have no appetite.”

“Well!”

“I have a pain, here.”

The doctor examines the part indicated.

“Very good, we’ll look at that by and by.”

“Now and then a shudder passes over me—­”

“Very good!”

“I have melancholy fits, I am always thinking of death, I feel promptings of suicide—­”

“Dear me!  Really!”

“I have rushes of heat to the face:  look, there’s a constant trembling in my eyelid.”

“Capital!  We call that a trismus.”

The doctor goes into an explanation, which lasts a quarter of an hour, of the trismus, employing the most scientific terms.  From this it appears that the trismus is the trismus:  but he observes with the greatest modesty that if science knows that the trismus is the trismus, it is entirely ignorant of the cause of this nervous affection, which comes and goes, appears and disappears—­“and,” he adds, “we have decided that it is altogether nervous.”

“Is it very dangerous?” asks Caroline, anxiously.

“Not at all.  How do you lie at night?”

“Doubled up in a heap.”

“Good.  On which side?”

“The left.”

“Very well.  How many mattresses are there on your bed?”

“Three.”

“Good.  Is there a spring bed?”

“Yes.”

“What is the spring bed stuffed with?”

“Horse hair.”

“Capital.  Let me see you walk.  No, no, naturally, and as if we weren’t looking at you.”

Caroline walks like Fanny Elssler, communicating the most Andalusian little motions to her tournure.

“Do you feel a sensation of heaviness in your knees?”

“Well, no—­” she returns to her place.  “Ah, no that I think of it, it seems to me that I do.”

“Good.  Have you been in the house a good deal lately?”

“Oh, yes, sir, a great deal too much—­and alone.”

“Good.  I thought so.  What do you wear on your head at night?”

“An embroidered night-cap, and sometimes a handkerchief over it.”

“Don’t you feel a heat there, a slight perspiration?”

“How can I, when I’m asleep?”

“Don’t you find your night-cap moist on your forehead, when you wake up?”

“Sometimes.”

“Capital.  Give me your hand.”

The doctor takes out his watch.

“Did I tell you that I have a vertigo?” asks Caroline.

“Hush!” says the doctor, counting the pulse.  “In the evening?”