Yes; he had found a really skilful physician in the neighborhood, a
man of superior ability. Attached at one time to the beautiful court
of Prince Eugene, he had been obliged to flee from Milan, and had taken
refuge in this secluded spot.
This physician was summoned, and promptly made his appearance. He was
one of those men whose age it is impossible to determine. His past,
whatever it might have been, had wrought deep furrows on his brow, and
his glance was as keen and piercing as his lancet.
After visiting the sick-room, he drew Maurice aside.
"Is this young lady really your wife, Monsieur--Dubois?"
He hesitated so strangely over this name, Dubois, that Maurice felt his
face crimson to the roots of his hair.
"I do not understand your question," he retorted, angrily.
"I beg your pardon, of course, but you seem very young for a married
man, and your hands are too soft to belong to a farmer. And when I spoke
to this young lady of her husband, she blushed scarlet. The man who
accompanies you has terrible mustaches for a farmer.
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