From disquietude it had come to fright; from fright it quickly passed to terror. So that the gentleman of the first floor, who had valuables in his rooms, made up his mind to go, and sent in notice by his clerk. Bernard went to inform the proprietor, who responded: "All right, let the fool go!" But next day the chiropodist of the second floor, though he had naught to fear for his valuables, imitated the gentleman beneath him. Then the bachelors and the little households of the fifth story quickly followed this example. From that moment it was a general rout. By the end of the week, everybody had given notice. Every one awaited some frightful catastrophe. They slept no more. They organized patrols. The terrified domestics swore that they too would quit the accursed house and remained temporarily only on tripled wages. Bernard was no more than the ghost of himself; the fever of fear had worn him to a shadow. "No," repeated his wife mournfully at each fresh notification, "no, it is _not_ natural." Meanwhile three-and-twenty "For Rent" placards swung against the façade of the house, drawing an occasional applicant for lodgings. Bernard--never grumbling now--climbed the staircase and ushered the visitor from apartment to apartment. "You can have your choice," said he to the people that presented themselves, "the house is entirely vacant; all the tenants have given notice as one man. They do not know why, exactly, but things have happened, oh! yes, _things_! a mystery such as was never before known--_the proprietor has lowered his rents!_" And the would-be lodgers fled away affrighted. The term ended, three-and-twenty vans carried away the furniture of the three-and-twenty tenants. Everybody left. From top to bottom, from foundations to garret, the house lay empty of lodgers. The rats themselves, finding nothing to live on, abandoned it also. Only the _concièrge_ remained, gray green with fear in his lodge. Frightful visions haunted his sleep. He seemed to hear lugubrious howlings and sinister murmurs at night that made his teeth chatter with terror and his hair erect itself under his cotton nightcap. Madame Bernard no more closed an eye than he. And Amanda in her frenzy renounced all thought of the operatic stage and married--for nothing in the world but to quit the paternal lodge--a young barber and hair-dresser whom she had never before been able to abide. At last, one morning, after a more frightful nightmare than usual, Bernard, too, took a great resolution. He went to the proprietor, gave up his keys, and scampered away. * * * * *