"Why, monsieur, do you really take me for a madman?"
"No, my friend, but you're not well. We'll take care of you and cure you. Hold still. Now your hands are free. Don't abuse it."
"Why, what the devil do you suppose I'll do? I've brought you my nephew—"
"Very well," said M. Auvray, "we'll talk about that in good time. I found you asleep; do you often sleep in the daytime?"
"Never! This stupid book—"
"Oh! oh!" said the author, "the case is serious. And so you think your nephew is mad?"
"Mad enough to be tied up, monsieur; and the proof is, that I had fastened his hands together with this rope."
"But you're the one whose hands were tied. Don't you remember that I set you free?"
"It was I? It was he! But let me explain the whole affair."
"Tut, my friend, you're getting excited: you're very red in the face. I don't want you to tire yourself. Just be content to answer my questions. You say that your nephew is ill?"
"Crazy, crazy, crazy!"
"And you are satisfied to see him crazy?"
"I?"
"Answer me frankly. You're not anxious for him to get well: is n't that so?"
"Why?"
