Henri Fourcade was Fourcade's brother, my old friend, of whom I have already spoken with reference to my early love affairs at Villers-Cotterets; who, it will be recollected, danced so well, and had in his pocket a second pair of gloves to change, when he went to the ball--a luxury at which I had been struck dumb. One night, then, when we had been laughing, talking, spouting verses, playing music, and having supper, as I was about to see my friends out and was lighting them from the top of my landing, I felt suddenly overtaken with a slight trembling in my legs; I took no notice of it and lent against the bannisters, half to light those who were going downstairs and half to support myself, as I shouted a ringing, cheerful _au revoir_! to them. Then, when the sound of their footsteps was lost in the square, I turned round to go into my rooms. "Oh, monsieur!" said Catherine to me, "how pale you are!" "Nonsense; am I really, Catherine?" I said laughingly. "Go and look in the glass, sir, and see." I followed her advice and looked in the glass. I was, indeed, exceedingly pale. At the same time, I was seized with a shaking which gradually turned to a violent shivering fit. "It is queer," I said; "I feel very cold." "Ah! monsieur," cried Catherine; "that is how it begins." "What, Catherine?" "The cholera, monsieur." "You think I have the cholera then, Catherine?" "Oh! I am sure of it, monsieur." "Oh! Then, Catherine, let us lose no time: get a lump of sugar, dip it in ether and fetch a doctor." Catherine went away, tumbling against the furniture as she left, and exclaiming-- "Oh! _mon Dieu!_ Master has the cholera!"