"I have observed him attentively. I don't like the way in which he
walks; and have you noticed what an anxious look he has at times? That
has never deceived me. In short, your brother is threatened with
ataxia."

"Ataxia!" she repeated turning very pale.

A cruel image rose before her, that of a neighbor, a man still young,
whom for the past ten years she had seen driven about in a little
carriage by a servant. Was not this infirmity the worst of all ills,
the ax stroke that separates a living being from social and active
life?

"But," she murmured, "he complains only of rheumatism."

Pascal shrugged his shoulders; and putting a finger to his lip he went
into the dining-room, where Felicite and Maxime were seated.

The dinner was very friendly. The sudden disquietude which had sprung
up in Clotilde's heart made her still more affectionate to her
brother, who sat beside her. She attended to his wants gayly, forcing
him to take the most delicate morsels. Twice she called back Martine,
who was passing the dishes too quickly. And Maxime was more and more
enchanted by this sister, who was so good, so healthy, so sensible,
whose charm enveloped him like a caress. So greatly was he captivated
by her that gradually a project, vague at first, took definite shape
within him. Since little Charles, his son, terrified him so greatly
with his deathlike beauty, his royal air of sickly imbecility, why
should he not take his sister Clotilde to live with him? The idea of