With softened steps and mournful faces, hosts of people made their way to the Place Ronde. Only to take a glimpse at the outside of the Maison Rouge brought satisfaction to excited feelings. Monsieur Gustave Sauvage had caused his white shop window-blinds to be drawn half-way down, out of respect to the dead; all the windows above had the green persiennes closed before them. The calamity had so greatly affected old Madame Sauvage that she lay in bed. When her sons returned indoors after the death had taken place, their mother called them to her room. Nancy's violent ringing had disturbed her, and she had lain since then in anxiety, waiting for news. "Better not tell the mother to-night," whispered Emile to his brother outside her door. But the mother's ears were quick; she was sitting up in bed, and the door was ajar. "Yes, you will tell me, my sons," she said. "I am fearing the worst." "Well, mother, it is all over," avowed Gustave. "The attack was more violent than the one last night, and the poor lady is gone." "May the good God have taken her to His rest!" fervently aspirated madame. But she lay down in the bed in her distress and covered her face with the white-frilled pillow and sobbed a little. Gustave and Emile related a few particulars. "And what was really the malady? What is it that she has died of?" questioned the mother, wiping her eyes. "That is not settled; nobody seems to know," replied Gustave. Madame Veuve Sauvage lay still, thinking. "I--hope--that--man--has--not--done--her--any--injury!" she slowly said. "I hope not either; there is no appearance of it," said Monsieur Gustave. "Any way, mother, she had two skilful doctors with her, honest men and upright. Better not admit such thoughts." "True, true," murmured madame, appeased. "I fear the poor dear lady must have taken a chill, which struck inwardly. That handsome demoiselle, the cousin of Monsieur le Procureur, died of the same thing, you may remember. Good-night, my sons; you leave me very unhappy." About eight o'clock in the morning, Monsieur Jules Carimon heard of it. In going through the large iron entrance-gates of the college to his day's work, he found himself accosted by one of two or three young gamins of pupils, who were also entering. It was Dion Pamart. The well-informed reader is of course aware that the French educational colleges are attended by all classes, high and low, indiscriminately. "Monsieur, have you heard?" said the lad, with timid deprecation. "Mademoiselle is dead." Monsieur Jules Carimon turned his eyes on the speaker. At first he did not recognize him: his own work lay with the advanced desks. "Ah, c'est Pamart, n'est-ce-pas?" said he. "What did you say, my boy? Some one is dead?" Dion Pamart repeated his information. The master, inwardly shocked, took refuge in disbelief. "I think you must be mistaken, Pamart," said he.