'A letter! ay, now I mind me; it was received on the morning of the gale, when I was absorbed in delicate investigations.

It is still legible.

From poor, dear Casimir! It is as well,' he chuckled, 'that I have educated him to patience.

Poor Casimir and his correspondence--his infinitesimal, timorous, idiotic correspondence!' He had by this time cautiously unfolded the wet letter; but, as he bent himself to decipher the writing, a cloud descended on his brow.
'_Bigre_!' he cried, with a galvanic start.
And then the letter was whipped into the fire, and the Doctor's cap was on his head in the turn of a hand.
'Ten minutes! I can catch it, if I run,' he cried.

'It is always late.
I go to Paris.