'Will you be good enough to follow me?' Pauline said to her. 'I have been quite at a loss to know what to do; she has never ceased complaining since the beginning of the evening.' Louise still stood before a chest of drawers in her room, pawing the floor with her feet. She burst into tears as soon as she saw Madame Bouland, who forthwith began to question her. But the young wife turned a glance of entreaty towards Pauline, which the latter well understood. She therefore led Lazare from the room, and they both remained on the landing, unable to take themselves further away. The candle, which was still burning below, threw a dim light, broken by weird shadows, up the stairs, and the two cousins stood, Lazare leaning against the wall and Pauline against the banisters, gazing at each other in motionless silence. They strained their ears to catch the sounds that came from Louise's room; and when Madame Bouland at last opened the door they would have entered, but she pushed them back, came out, and closed the door behind her. 'Well?' Pauline murmured. She signed to them to go downstairs, and it was not till they had reached the ground floor that she opened her mouth. It was a premature and very difficult case. 'It seems likely to be extremely serious,' she said. 'It is my duty to warn the family.' Lazare turned pale. An icy breath passed over his brow. Then in stammering accents he asked for particulars. Madame Bouland gave them, adding: 'I cannot undertake the responsibility. The presence of a doctor is absolutely necessary.' Silence fell once more. Lazare was overcome with despair. Where were they to find a doctor at that time of night? His wife might die twenty times before they could get the surgeon from Arromanches. 'I don't think there is any immediate danger,' said Madame Bouland; 'still, you had better lose no time. I myself can do nothing further.' And as Pauline besought her, in the name of humanity, to try something, at any rate, to alleviate the sufferings of Louise, whose groans echoed through the house, she replied in her clear sharp voice: 'No, indeed; I can do nothing of that kind. That other poor woman over yonder is dead, and I would rather not be responsible for this one.' Again did Lazare shudder. At this moment, however, a tearful call was heard from Chanteau in the dining-room. 'Are you there? Come in! No one has been to tell me anything. I have been waiting to hear something ever so long.' They entered the room. They had forgotten all about poor Chanteau since the interrupted dinner. He had remained at the table, twisting his thumbs and patiently waiting with all the drowsy resignation which he had acquired during his long periods of lonely quiescence. This new catastrophe, which was revolutionising the house, had greatly saddened him; he had not even had heart enough to go on eating, his food still remained untouched on his plate. 'Is she no better?' he inquired.