Veuve Angelin, who could not understand a joke, was left not altogether at ease. "If monsieur loses his standing in the place, I shall quit," she said to herself. "To have that woman setting herself before us would be unbearable. To assist M. Pinot! The Bishop would have more proper feeling than to allow such a thing to be named. M. Pinot!" M. Deshoulieres meanwhile reached the iron gates, passed under the trees, from which brown leaves were dropping, and rang the bell of the Eveche. M. Jean himself opened the door, the Abbe was not to be seen. The doctor went upstairs into a large lofty apartment, wainscoted with dark wood. Logs were burning in an open fireplace; in a great cushioned chair drawn close to it, sat an old kindly-faced man, with a little black skull-cap covering his white locks, and his withered hands stretched out on the arms of his chair. "So you are come this time, Monsieur Deshoulieres," he said, with a little nod of welcome. "Monseigneur," said the doctor, respectfully, "it was no intentional neglect on my part. I consider it my duty to attend first to the most pressing cases, and I was well aware that Monsieur Pinot would prove efficient." "Oh, I know all about it. It was my nephew. Monsieur l'Abbe does not infrequently make a--hem--he makes mistakes," said the Bishop, pulling himself up. "And now, my good M. Deshoulieres, before we say any thing more, be kind enough to tell me how is the boy, and what is his name?" "He is a little better," said the doctor, smiling, "and he is the grandson of old Andre Triquet, the wood-cutter." "What does he most want?" "Every thing." "Except a good doctor," said Monseigneur, with a kind smile. "There he has the advantage of us all. Well, I must see to my rival's comforts. And now for my next question. I do not receive much definite information: is it your opinion that the town is in a healthy condition?" M. Deshoulieres shook his head. "There have been fever cases clinging to it all the summer." "But they say that the cold weather will cure them." "The cold weather may undoubtedly check the results, but if the cause remains, I venture, Monseigneur, to predict a fierce epidemic for next year." "And the cause is--?" "The blindness or the wickedness of our authorities." "You speak strongly, Monsieur Deshoulieres." "You would do the same, Monseigneur, if your work lay where mine does." There was a little silence: the doctor became aware of the unintentional irony of his words; the Bishop also had recognised it, for he moved his head restlessly upon the cushion. Presently he stretched out his hand to the doctor and said with simple dignity,--