The perspiration of these good fellows turned cold upon them, Jean-Marie.

I will pledge my reputation, if there was anything like a cutting wind, one or other had a pneumonia for his trouble.' 'I should like to have seen them turning into dust,' said Jean-Marie.
'Otherwise, I should not have cared so greatly.' 'You have no imagination,' cried the Doctor.

'Picture to yourself the scene.

Dwell on the idea--a great treasure lying in the earth for centuries: the material for a giddy, copious, opulent existence not employed; dresses and exquisite pictures unseen; the swiftest galloping horses not stirring a hoof, arrested by a spell; women with the beautiful faculty of smiles, not smiling; cards, dice, opera singing, orchestras, castles, beautiful parks and gardens, big ships with a tower of sailcloth, all lying unborn in a coffin--and the stupid trees growing overhead in the sunlight, year after year.

The thought drives one frantic.' 'It is only money,' replied Jean-Marie.