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“Sleep! I wish I could give you some of
mine! I have more than I need of it, and to
spare. Do you know, I have hardly time to put
my head on the pillow before I am fast asleep and
nothing can wake me up. My wife is an early
riser, but never once have I heard her get up, and
my valet, who brings me my coffee at nine has to
shake me before I wake up. I pity you indeed.
A propos, I suppose you do not know of any
remedy against snoring?”
It was a clear case. We joined the ladies in the
drawing-room. I was made to sit down by the
side of the venerable Marquise for the unofficial
consultation so skilfully arranged by the Countess.
After another attempt to open a conversation
with the old lady, I roared into her ear-trumpet
that she had not got colitis, but that I was sure
she would get it if she did not give up her pâté
de foi gras.
“I told you so,” whispered the Countess,
“isn’t he clever?”
The Marquise wished to know at once all the
symptoms of colitis and smiled cheerfully at me
while I dripped the subtle poison down the
ear-trumpet. When I stood up to go, I had lost my
voice, but had found a new patient.
A week later an elegant coupé stopped at the
Avenue de Villiers and a footman rushed upstairs
with a hurriedly scribbled note from the Countess
to come at once to the Marquise who had been
taken ill in the night with evident symptoms of
colitis. I had made my entrée in Paris society.
Colitis spread like wildfire all over Paris. My
waiting-room was soon so full of people that I
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