sunstroke?'

'No more than you are, uncle,' answered the priest, laughing.

'Oh, I have the hood of my trap to shield me. Besides, sick folks won't
wait. People die at all times, my boy.' And he went on to relate that he
was now on his way to old Jeanbernat, the steward of the Paradou, who
had had an apoplectic stroke the night before. A neighbour, a peasant on
his way to Plassans market, had summoned him.

'He must be dead by this time,' the doctor continued. 'However, we must
make sure. . . . Those old demons are jolly tough, you know.'

He was already raising his whip, when Abbe Mouret stopped him.

'Stay! what o'clock do you make it, uncle?'

'A quarter to eleven.'

The Abbe hesitated; he already seemed to hear La Teuse's terrible voice
bawling in his ears that his luncheon was getting cold. But he plucked
up courage and added swiftly: 'I'll go with you, uncle. The unhappy man
may wish to reconcile himself to God in his last hour.'

Doctor Pascal could not restrain a laugh.

'What, Jeanbernat!' he said; 'ah, well! if ever you convert him! Never
mind, come all the same. The sight of you is enough to cure him.'

The priest got in. The doctor, apparently regretting his jest, displayed