“Pardon me,” replied the Empress gently, “but this is a question of humanity, not of politics.” And she finally carried her point. The youthful prisoners of La Roquette were sent into the country, and the cell system was abolished. It was not without anxiety that the warders received the new inmates, fearing it would be a hard task to manage them and that the well-behaved children would be corrupted by the others. Results proved, however, that the Empress was right, for even the most depraved and hardened culprits improved with kind treatment and work in the open air. Equally worthy of note was the day spent by the Regent at St. Lazare—a place of confinement for abandoned women. News of the Empress’s visit to this place spread like wildfire over the city, and on leaving these poor, despised creatures she received touching proofs of the people’s devotion to her. The crowds assembled in the streets murmured blessings on her, while the women knelt to kiss the hem of her gown. Toward the end of September, 1865, cholera broke out in Paris, and the court, which was then at Biarritz, decided to return to the capital at once. The memory of the terrible epidemic of 1849 was still fresh in the minds of the people; and when, after apparently subsiding, the disease broke out again with renewed violence a terrible panic ensued. The courage and self-sacrifice displayed by Eugénie during this time won universal applause; the newspapers, even those hostile to her, were loud in praise of the royal “sister of charity.” On the twenty-first of October the Emperor made a long visit to one of the cholera hospitals, and on leaving ordered the sum of fifty thousand francs to be distributed for the relief of the sufferers. Eugénie, to whom he had said nothing of his intention, was much disappointed at not having accompanied him. The next morning she drove from St. Cloud to Paris, where she made the rounds of all the cholera hospitals herself, going from bed to bed with words of cheer and comfort. Once, pausing beside a man who was dying, she took his hand in hers gently and spoke some words of sympathy to him. Thinking it one of the nuns, the poor fellow summoned up his last remnants of strength to kiss her hand. “Thanks, sister,” he murmured. The sister of charity who accompanied the Empress leaned over and said: “You mistake, my friend; it was not I, but our gracious Empress who spoke to you.” “Never mind, sister,” interposed Eugénie, “he could have given me no more beautiful name—” a saying which was repeated and long remembered among the people. * * * * * * * *