Fleurissoire got back to Rome and the Via dei Vecchierelli that same evening. He was extremely tired and persuaded Carola to allow him to sleep. The next morning, as soon as he woke, his spot, from the way it felt, seemed to him odd; he examined it in the glass and found that a yellowish scab had formed over the part that had been grazed; the whole had a decidedly nasty look. As at that moment he heard Carola outside on the landing, he called her in and begged her to examine the place. She led Fleurissoire up to the window and at first glance assured him: “It’s not what you think.” To tell the truth, Amédée had not thought particularly of _it_, but Carola’s attempt to reassure him had the contrary effect of filling him with alarm. For, indeed, directly she asserted that it was not _it_, it meant there was a chance that it might be. After all, was she really certain that it wasn’t? It seemed to him quite natural that it should be; for there was no doubt that he had sinned; he deserved that it should be _it_; it must be _it_. A cold shudder went down his spine. “How did you get it?” she asked. Ah! what signified that occasional cause--the rasor’s cut or the chemist’s spittle? The real, the root cause, the one that had earned him this chastisement, could he with decency tell her what it was? Would she understand him if he did? She would laugh, no doubt.... As she repeated her question: “It was a barber,” he said. “You ought to put something on it.” This solicitude swept away his last doubts; what she had said at first was merely to reassure him; he saw himself with his face and body eaten away by boils--an object of disgust to Arnica; his eyes filled with tears. “Then you think....” “No, no, dearie, you mustn’t get into such a state; you look like a funeral. In the first place, it would be impossible to tell it at this stage, even if it is that.” “It is! It is!... Oh! it serves me right! It serves me right!” he repeated. She was touched. “And, besides, it never begins like that. Shall I call Madam in to tell you so?... No? Well, then, you’d better go out a little to distract your thoughts. Go and get a glass of Marsala.” She kept silent for a moment. At last, unable to restrain herself any longer: “Listen,” she broke out. “I’ve something serious to tell you. You didn’t happen to meet a sort of _curé_ yesterday, with white hair, did you?” “Why?” asked Fleurissoire in amazement. “Well ...” she hesitated again; then, looking at him and seeing how pale he was, she went on impulsively: “Well, don’t trust him. Take my word for it, you poor lamb; he means to fleece you. I oughtn’t to tell you so, but ... don’t you trust him.” Amédée was getting ready to go out, not knowing whether he was on his head or on his heels; he was already on the stairs, when she called him back: “And mind, if you see him again, don’t tell him that I said anything. You’d as good as murder me.” * * * * *