These disorders, which are the terror of ordinary mankind, have names which are the terror of philologists.They are hybrid names, half Greek, half Latin, with terminations in "itis," indicating the inflammatory condition, and in "algia," indicating pain.The doctor gives me all their names, together with a corresponding number of adjectives ending in "ic," which serve to characterise their detestable qualities.In short, they represent a good half of that most perfect copy of the Dictionary of Medicine contained in the too-authentic box of Pandora.
"Doctor, what an excellent common-sense story the story of Pandora is!--if I were a poet I would put it into French verse.Shake hands, doctor! You have brought me back to life; I forgive you for it.You have given me back to my friends; I thank you for it.You say I am quite strong.That may be, that may be; but I have lasted a very long time.I am a very old article of furniture; I might be very satisfactorily compared to my father's arm-chair.It was an arm-chair which the good man had inherited, and in which he used to lounge from morning until evening.Twenty times a day, when I was quite a baby, I used to climb up and seat myself on one of the arms of that old-fashioned chair.So long as the chair remained intact, nobody paid any particular attention to it.But it began to limp on one foot and then folks began to say that it was a very good chair.Afterwards it became lame in three legs, squeaked with the fourth leg, and lost nearly half of both arms.Then everybody would exclaim, 'What a strong chair!' They wondered how it was that after its arms had been worn off and all its legs knocked out of perpendicular, it could yet preserve the recognisable shape of a chair, remains nearly erect, and still be of some service.The horse-hair came out of its body at last, and it gave up the ghost.
And when Cyprien, our servant, sawed up its mutilated members for fire-wood, everybody redoubled their cries of admiration.Oh!
what an excellent--what a marvellous chair! It was the chair of Pierre Sylvestre Bonnard, the cloth merchant--of Epimenide Bonnard, his son--of Jean-Baptiste Bonnard, the Pyrrhonian philosopher and Chief of the Third Maritime Division.Oh! what a robust and venerable chair!' In reality it was a dead chair.Well, doctor, I am that chair.You think I am solid because I have been able to resist an attack which would have killed many people, and which only three-fourths killed me.Much obliged! I feel none the less that I am something which has been irremediably damaged."The doctor tries to prove to me, with the help of enormous Greek and Latin words, that I am really in a very good condition.It would, of course, be useless to attempt any demonstration of this kind in so lucid a language as French.However, I allow him to persuade me at last; and I see him to the door.
"Good! good!" exclaimed Therese; "that is the way to put the doctor out of the house! Just do the same thing once or twice again, and he will not come to see you any more--and so much the better?""Well, Therese, now that I have become such a hearty man again, do not refuse to give me my letters.I am sure there must be quite a big bundle of letters, and it would be very wicked to keep me any longer from reading them."Therese, after some little grumbling, gave me my letters.But what did it matter?--I looked at all the envelopes, and saw that no one of them had been addressed by the little hand which I so much wish I could see here now, turning over the pages of the Vecellio.Ipushed the whole bundle of letters away: they had no more interest for me.
April-June It was a hotly contested engagement.
"Wait, Monsieur, until I have put on my clean things," exclaimed Therese, "and I will go out with you this time also; I will carry your folding-stool as I have been doing these last few days, and we will go and sit down somewhere in the sun."Therese actually thinks me infirm.I have been sick, it is true, but there is an end to all things! Madame Malady has taken her departure quite awhile ago, and it is now more than three months since her pale and gracious-visaged handmaid, Dame Convalescence, politely bade me farewell.If I were to listen to my housekeeper, I should become a veritable Monsieur Argant, and I should wear a nightcap with ribbons for the rest of my life....No more of this!--I propose to go out by myself! Therese will not hear of it.She takes my folding-stool, and wants to follow me.
"Therese, to-morrow, if you like, we will take our seats on the sunny side of the wall of La Petite Provence and stay there just as long as you please.But to-day I have some very important affairs to attend to.""So much the better! But your affairs are not the only affairs in this world."I beg; I scold; I make my escape.
It is quite a pleasant day.With the aid of a cab and the help of almighty God, I trust to be able to fulfil my purpose.
There is the wall on which is painted in great blue letters the words "Pensionnat de Demoiselles tenu par Mademoiselle Virginie Prefere." There is the iron gate which would give free entrance into the court-yard if it were ever opened.But the lock is rusty, and sheets of zinc put up behind the bars protect the indiscreet observation those dear little souls to whom Mademoiselle Prefere doubtless teaches modesty, sincerity, justice, and disinterestedness.
