drank it all. And you had better order, while you are about it, now and
then, a good bottle of Johannisberg. That is the best wine to set a man
up again."

"Time was," remarked the master of the hounds in a dismal voice--"time
was when monseigneur hunted twice a week; then he was well; when he left
off hunting, then he fell ill."

"Of course it could not be otherwise," observed Marie Lagoutte. "The open
air gives you an appetite. The doctor had better order him to hunt three
times a week to make up for lost time."

"Two would be enough," replied the man of dogs with the same gravity;
"quite enough. The hounds must have their rest. Dogs have just as much
right to rest as we have."

There was a few moments' silence, during which I could hear the wind
beating against the window-panes, and rush, sighing and wailing, through
the loopholes into the towers.

Sébalt sat with legs across, and his elbow resting on his knee, gazing
into the fire with unspeakable dolefulness. Marie Lagoutte, after having
refreshed herself with a fresh pinch, was settling her snuff into shape
in its box, while I sat thinking on the strange habit people indulge in
of pressing their advice upon those who don't want it.

At this moment the major-domo rose.

"Will you have a glass of wine, doctor?" said he, leaning over the back
of my arm-chair.