“I regret infinitely, father, my inability to yield in this matter, but I judge that I ought to stay, and I shall stay.” The words came grandly. He fixed me with his piercing eyes, and did not even raise his voice: “I rule in my house, before ruling in the town, my boy. I give you this order: You will go to-morrow with your grandfather, Louise and the two younger children. I am in charge of the whole city: we shall see whether my son will be the first to disobey.” He turned away. So peremptorily had he spoken that a sense of the impossibility of resistance took possession of me. He had been humouring me this long time; he had thought from my reserve that I was indifferent if not hostile, and he cherished the hope of regaining my confidence. Now he suddenly abandoned all methods of conciliation and put me back in the ranks like a mere soldier, not like a future chief. Without caring the least in the world about taking active service among the hospital staff, I champed my bit with rage, as if I had been subjected to the most cruel abuse. Grandfather, delighted with this outcome, consoled me good-naturedly. “Oho! what do you care? He has a craze for giving orders. We shall be very well off up there.” Our preparations filled the afternoon. Grandfather himself brought down from the tower his barometer, violin, pipes and almanacs. The repeated journeys put him out of breath, but he would stop for no one. The rest of the packing was of no interest to him, but concerned Aunt Deen, to whom he had long ago given over the care of his clothes and linen. At nightfall Abbé Heurtevant came for a visit. Father was at the hospital, or the mayor’s office, and mother at the work-rooms where bed clothing for the sick poor was being made. Grandfather, with new found resolution, refused to have the door opened, and inquired from the window whether our friend had been disinfected. Nothing would do but for the abbé to pass through the disinfecting room that had been set up in the house, after which he was welcomed with gladness, and grandfather even offered him his copy of the prophecies of Michel Nostradamus. M. Heurtevant accepted the gift with small enthusiasm; he was acquainted with the Centuries and found them obscure and contradictory. “Yes, you prefer Sister Rose-Colombe and the Abbey of Orval. And what catastrophes have you to report, Abbé?” “In the first place, your labourer Tem Bossette died this morning of the pestilence.” “Ah!” said grandfather, quickly adding, as if finding an excuse for not grieving, “he was a drunkard.” “Poor Tem!” sighed Aunt Deen. “Had he confessed?” “He had no time--the complaint seized him like a thunderclap.” “An alcoholic,” observed grandfather. My aunt went on questioning our guest about persons of our acquaintance: “How about Beatrix? And Mimi Pachoux?”