Before the woman had told her story, the cheeks of the baron were as pale as her own--his eyes scarcely less moist. He had put his hand to his pocket, and when the woman ceased--he drew it out again, and presented her with a crown-piece. "Go home," said he "with that. Buy bread and fuel. I will be at your lodging this afternoon." The woman was about to exclaim. "Not a syllable!" said her benefactor, preventing her. "If you thank me, I will do nothing for you. Go your ways now. I cannot accompany you--for you see I am very busy; but before the day is out, I will prescribe for your goodman.--Good-by to you--good-by." The woman went away without another word. Before she reached the bottom of the stairs, the baron spoke. "Mr Walpole--pray be kind enough to call her back!" She came. "You must not think me harsh now," proceeded the baron, by way of apology, "I did not wish to be so. I shall do all I can for you, and your husband will no doubt be soon quite well again. There, keep your spirits up, and go home and cheer the good fellow. I shall see you by-and-by--_Adieu, ma chere_." The professor continued his lecture; but not for five minutes before he appeared to be very uneasy at his work. He put his pen down, and sat for a time full of thought; then he rose and paced the room, and then took up his pen again; at last, he started from his chair and pulled the bell. "Francois," said he to the servant, "let the cabriolet be here immediately. Yes," he continued, as if speaking to himself, "it will be better to go at once; the man may be seriously ill. His life may be in danger. It can be done in an hour--there is plenty of time still for the lecture. We must go and see this poor fellow, Mr Walpole," added the professor, addressing me. "Come, you shall give me your opinion of the case." And the lecture and the engravings were neglected, and we dashed through the streets towards the Quartier St Jacques, with every chance of breaking our own necks as well as that of the spirited animal that flew before the whip of the excited practitioner. "Well," said I to myself as we alighted, "it may be, Monsieur le Baron, as you state it, '_the pain of the peasant is as acute as the smart of a king_.' It is, however, very certain that you do not hold to the converse of the proposition." The water-carrier was in truth alarmingly ill, and he was not likely to remain so much longer, if left to himself; for it was already the eleventh hour with him. He was living in a filthy hole--lying on a bed of straw, without the commonest necessaries of life. The man had become diseased through want and confinement--that cause and origin of half the complaints to which the human frame is subject; lack of wholesome food and pure air. The baron perceived instantly that nothing could be done for the unhappy fellow in his present abode, and he therefore insisted upon his being removed at once to a _maison de sante_. "I can't walk," said the man gruffly.