and if her sentiments have not changed since September, I have the honor to ask you for her hand."
The doctor answered: "This is Monsieur François Thomas, then, with whom I've the honor of speaking?"
"The same, monsieur, and I ought to have begun by telling you my name."
"Monsieur, permit me to tell you that you've decidedly taken your own time."
At this moment, the doctor's attention was drawn to M. Morlot, who was rubbing his hands with a sort of passion.
"What's the matter with you, my friend?" he inquired in his sweet and paternal voice.
"Nothing! Nothing! I'm only rubbing my hands."
"But why?"
"There's something there that bothers me."
"Show it to me; I don't see anything."
"You don't see it? There, there, between the fingers. I see it plainly, I do!"
"What do you see?"
"My nephew's money. Take it away, doctor! I'm an honest man; I don't want anybody's property."
While the doctor was listening attentively to these first aberrations of M. Morlot a strange revolution took place in the appearance of Francois. He grew pale and cold, his teeth chattered
