Otherwise, between sick children
and discontented old folk, we might be put out of all
conceit of life.
*
When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with his
hat. 'I am afraid,' said he, 'that monsieur will think me
altogether a beggar; but I have another demand to make upon
him.' I began to hate him on the spot. 'We play again
to-night,' he went on. 'Of course I shall refuse to accept
any more money from monsieur and his friends, who have been
already so liberal. But our programme of to-night is
something truly creditable; and I cling to the idea that
monsieur will honour us with his presence. And then, with
a shrug and a smile: 'Monsieur understands--the vanity of
an artist!' Save the mark! The vanity of an artist!
That is the kind of thing that reconciles me to life:
a ragged, tippling, incompetent old rogue, with the
manners of a gentleman and the vanity of an artist,
to keep up his self-respect!
*
Time went on, and the boy's health still slowly declined.
The Doctor blamed the weather, which was cold and
boisterous. He called in his CONFRERE from Burron, took a
fancy for him, magnified his capacity, and was pretty soon
under treatment himself--it scarcely appeared for what
complaint. He and Jean-Marie had each medicine to take at
different periods of the day. The Doctor used to lie in
wait for the exact moment, watch in hand.
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