“From the Opéra?” I repeated, looking at him incredulously. “But it is only being built, and there is nothing but scaffolding there yet.” “Yes; but you must go through the little doorway under the scaffolding opposite the Rue Scribe; you then go up the little spiral staircase leading to the provision office, and there you will be supplied with what you want.” “There is still something else I want to ask,” I said. “Go on; I am quite resigned, and ready for your orders,” he replied. “Well, I am very uneasy,” I said, “for they have put a stock of powder in the cellars under the Odéon. If Paris were to be bombarded and a shell should fall on the building, we should all be blown up, and that is not the aim and object of an ambulance.” “You are quite right,” said the kind man, “and nothing could be more stupid than to store powder there. I shall have more difficulty about that, though,” he continued, “for I shall have to deal with a crowd of stubborn _bourgeois_ who want to organise the defence in their own way. You must try to get a petition for me, signed by the most influential householders and tradespeople in the neighbourhood. Now are you satisfied?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, shaking both his hands cordially. “You have been most kind and charming. Thank you very much.” I then moved towards the door, but I stood still again suddenly, as though hypnotised by an overcoat hanging over a chair. Madame Guérard saw what had attracted my attention, and she pulled my sleeve gently. “My dear Sarah,” she whispered, “do not do that.” I looked beseechingly at the young Prefect, but he did not understand. “What can I do now to oblige you, beautiful Madonna?” he asked. I pointed to the coat and tried to look as charming as possible. “I am very sorry,” he said, bewildered, “but I do not understand at all.” I was still pointing to the coat. “Give it me, will you?” I said. “My overcoat?” “Yes.” “What do you want it for?” “For my wounded men when they are convalescent.” He sank down on a chair in a fit of laughter. I was rather vexed at this uncontrollable outburst, and I continued my explanation. “There is nothing so funny about it,” I said. “I have a poor fellow, for instance, two of whose fingers have been taken off. He does not need to stay in bed for that, naturally, and his soldier’s cape is not warm enough. It is very difficult to warm the big _foyer_ of the Odéon sufficiently, and those who are well enough have to be there. The man I tell you about is warm enough at present, because I took Henri Fould’s overcoat when he came to see me the other day. My poor soldier is huge, and as Henri Fould is a giant I might never have had such an opportunity again. I shall want a great many overcoats, though, and this looks like a very warm one.”