graceful--he is surprising--he is innocent; and, Monsieur, he is
patronized by the Church; he is patronized by your amiable _Curé_,
Monsieur le Docteur Brand."

"Oh, father," I exclaimed, "Dr. Brand has taken tickets!"

"And pray, sir, what's that to me?" growled my father, without looking
up from the book which he had ungraciously resumed. "Let Dr. Brand make
a fool of himself, if he pleases. I'm not bound to do the same."

The Chevalier blushed crimson--not with humility this time, but with
pride. He gathered the cards into his pocket, took up his hat, and
saying stiffly--"_Monsieur, je vous demande pardon._"--moved towards
the door.

On the threshold he paused, and turning towards me with an air of faded
dignity:--"Young gentleman," he said, "_you_ I thank for your
politeness."

He seemed as if he would have said more--hesitated--became suddenly
livid--put his hand to his head, and leaned for support against
the wall.

My father was up and beside him in an instant. We carried rather than
led him to the sofa, untied his cravat, and administered the necessary
restoratives. He was all but insensible for some moments. Then the color
came back to his lips, and he sighed heavily.

"An attack of the nerves," he said, shaking his head feebly. "An attack
of the nerves, Messieurs."