M. Leminof spoke in a tone so serious and composed, that for a few
moments Gilbert could have imagined him a pedagogue gravely
explaining his maxims of education; but he could not forget that
expression of ferocious joy which was depicted on his face at the
moment when Stephane fled sobbing from the garden, and he
remembered also the somnambulist who, on the preceding night, had
uttered certain broken phrases in regard to a LIVING PORTRAIT and a
BURIED SMILE. These mysterious words, terrible in their obscurity,
had appeared to him to allude to Stephane, and they accorded badly
with the airs of paternal solicitude which M. Leminof had deigned
to affect in the past few minutes. He had a show of reason,
however, in his argument; and the picture which he drew of his son,
if cruelly exaggerated, had still some points of resemblance. Only
Gilbert had reason to think that the Count purposely confounded
cause and effect, and that Stephane's malady was the work of the
physician.

"Will you permit me, sir," answered he, "to tell you all that I
have on my heart?"

"Speak, speak, improve the opportunity: I swear to you it won't
occur again."

And looking at his watch:

"You have still five minutes to talk with me about my son. Hurry;
I will not grant you two seconds more."

"I have heard it said," resumed Gilbert, "that in building bridges
and causeways, the best foundations are those which HUMOR the waves