A mist swam before the eyes of the poor woman; she feared she was about
to faint; but, summoning all her strength, she conquered her weakness
and, dragging herself to the staircase, she cried:

"Help! help! My son is dying!"

With a bound M. d'Escorval reached his son's chamber, looked at him
and dashed out again, summoned a servant, and ordered him to gallop to
Montaignac and bring a physician without a moment's delay.

There was, indeed, a doctor at Sairmeuse, but he was the most stupid
of men--a former surgeon in the army, who had been dismissed for
incompetency. The peasants shunned him as they would the plague; and in
case of sickness always sent for the cure. M. d'Escorval followed their
example, knowing that the physician from Montaignac could not arrive
until nearly morning.

Abbe Midon had never frequented the medical schools, but since he had
been a priest the poor so often asked advice of him that he applied
himself to the study of medicine, and, aided by experience, he had
acquired a knowledge of the art which would have won him a diploma from
the faculty anywhere.

At whatever hour of the day or night parishioners came to ask his
assistance, he was always ready--his only answer: "Let us go at once."

And when the people of the neighborhood met him on the road with his
little box of medicine slung over his shoulder, they took off their hats
respectfully and stood aside to let him pass. Those who did not respect