“Well, then, between the necessity for making a fortune and the depravity of speculation there is no check or hindrance; for the religious sense is wholly lacking in France, in spite of the laudable endeavors of those who are working for a Catholic revival. And this is the opinion of every man who, like me, studies society at the core.” “And you have few pleasures?” said Hortense. “The true physician, madame, is in love with his science,” replied the doctor. “He is sustained by that passion as much as by the sense of his usefulness to society. “At this very time you see in me a sort of scientific rapture, and many superficial judges would regard me as a man devoid of feeling. I have to announce a discovery to-morrow to the College of Medicine, for I am studying a disease that had disappeared--a mortal disease for which no cure is known in temperate climates, though it is curable in the West Indies--a malady known here in the Middle Ages. A noble fight is that of the physician against such a disease. For the last ten days I have thought of nothing but these cases--for there are two, a husband and wife.--Are they not connections of yours? For you, madame, are surely Monsieur Crevel’s daughter?” said he, addressing Celestine. “What, is my father your patient?” asked Celestine. “Living in the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy?” “Precisely so,” said Bianchon. “And the disease is inevitably fatal?” said Victorin in dismay. “I will go to see him,” said Celestine, rising. “I positively forbid it, madame,” Bianchon quietly said. “The disease is contagious.” “But you go there, monsieur,” replied the young woman. “Do you think that a daughter’s duty is less binding than a doctor’s?” “Madame, a physician knows how to protect himself against infection, and the rashness of your devotion proves to me that you would probably be less prudent than I.” Celestine, however, got up and went to her room, where she dressed to go out. “Monsieur,” said Victorin to Bianchon, “have you any hope of saving Monsieur and Madame Crevel?” “I hope, but I do not believe that I may,” said Bianchon. “The case is to me quite inexplicable. The disease is peculiar to negroes and the American tribes, whose skin is differently constituted to that of the white races. Now I can trace no connection with the copper-colored tribes, with negroes or half-castes, in Monsieur or Madame Crevel. “And though it is a very interesting disease to us, it is a terrible thing for the sufferers. The poor woman, who is said to have been very pretty, is punished for her sins, for she is now squalidly hideous if she is still anything at all. She is losing her hair and teeth, her skin is like a leper’s, she is a horror to herself; her hands are horrible, covered with greenish pustules, her nails are loose, and the flesh is eaten away by the poisoned humors.” “And the cause of such a disease?” asked the lawyer.