The Bishop did his best for him, but, as he had said, he was an old man, and in his comfortable room, in the Eveche, he could not, perhaps, estimate the extent of the danger. After all, too, this danger depended in great measure upon certain conditions. There had been a warm, damp spring. If the summer were unusually hot the chances were very much in favour of the fever. Otherwise it might tide over again, carry off one here, one there, and not at all interfere with the Prefet's mushroom-beds. M. Deshoulieres was looked upon as an uncomfortable prophet. Why should he talk of evils before they arrived? He would not consent to hold his peace as they desired, but he was thrown very much upon his own resources. A little beyond the suburbs I have described, a hospital had been built, the Hospital St Jean. M. Deshoulieres busied himself with improving its working capabilities. He had a certain authority there of which he made good use. And it seemed to him as if there was little else he could do. The men in whose hands power rested met him with the never-failing "_nous verrons_," which did not abate his indignation, and the poor clung to their poverty and their filth. And meanwhile the fever gained a little ground. It was of a low typhoid character, and it kept entirely in the lower town. As yet not a single case had occurred elsewhere to frighten the mothers when they looked at their little ones sleeping, with, perhaps, a little flush upon the soft sweet cheek. The lower town was privileged, as it were, to possess a certain amount of unhealthiness, and no one troubled their heads much about the matter except the doctors, whose business it was supposed to be. It was a lovely summer. There was the promise of an abundant harvest, always an important question in Charville. The plains, flat and ugly as they were, could boast a certain beauty in their aspect of fertility. Little stone-coloured villages, with a church in the centre of each, were dotted here and there. Canals or small streams trickled slowly along, the course of the river was broken by water-mills, every thing seemed full of fat promise. The sun glowed down upon it all,--a peaceful, contented scene. What more was wanted? The Prefet looked at it one day from his window with a smile of satisfaction, and went away to his mushroom-beds. He saw Monsieur Deshoulieres in the distance, and crossed over to avoid him. "That man has become a perfect pest," he said severely. "I incline to think that after all there may be something in these stories that one hears now and then about him and the old man who died. It appears to me that he never knows when to be content, and discontent is the mother of all the vices, one with which, I am thankful to say, I have no sympathy." "It is the bane of our century," said Monsieur de Blainville, with whom he was walking. "Precisely. And in my opinion the Government should put it down with more determination than they do."