The severe and intelligent face of Dr. Griffon, his penetrating look, his
brow habitually contracted, his rough manner of speaking, augmented still
more the alarm of Jeanne.
"A new subject!" said the doctor, casting his eye on the card where was
inscribed the nature of the malady of the new-comer. He preserved a
profound silence, while his assistants, imitating the prince of science,
fixed their eyes on the patient with curiosity. She, to throw aside as much
as possible all the painful emotions caused by so many spectators, looked
steadily at the doctor, with deep anguish.
After an examination of several minutes, the doctor, remarking something
anomalous in the yellowish tint of the eyeball, approached nearer to her,
and with the end of his finger pushing back the eyelid, he examined the
crystalline lens. Then several students, answering to a kind of mute
invitation of their professor, went, in turn, to observe the appearance of
the eye. Afterward the doctor proceeded to this interrogatory: "Your name?"
"Jeanne Duport," murmured the patient, more and more alarmed.
"Your age?"
"Thirty-six and a half."
"Louder. Born in--"
"Paris."
"Your occupation?"
"Fringe-maker."
"Married?"
"Alas! yes, sir," answered Jeanne, with a deep sigh.
"How long since?"
"Eighteen years."
"Any children?" Here, instead of answering, the unhappy mother gave vent to
her tears, for a long time restrained.
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