"You must ask others that question, Monsieur le Prefet. I have now no time for the work of prevention." "We must draw cordons, endeavour to separate the infected streets." "Whatever is done, permit me to offer you my last piece of advice. Lose no more time." There was a bright indignant flash in the doctor's eye, of which the Prefet was not unconscious: M. Deshoulieres could not restrain it when he thought of the wasted warnings. The Prefet was no coward. He went down into the fever-stricken districts, and did his utmost at last to stir the people into exertion. But a kind of despairing apathy hung over them. They resented the attempt to move them into fresh houses. "Better die where one has lived," was the unfailing answer. Among the higher classes a panic prevailed, whole families fled; but after a time, when the fever raged more fiercely, the neighbouring towns refused to receive them, and Charville was shunned as a plague-stricken place. The hospital of Saint Jean was full to overflowing; other buildings were hastily fitted up, still more room was needed, and more nurses required. Sisters were sent from the convent, and then the fever attacked the convent itself, and more could not be spared. Others came from Paris, and yet hands were wanted. The doctors were overworked and were in despair. Those who are able to thank God that they have never seen the horrors of a pestilence have no conception of the blight which hangs over the doomed town. There are a certain number who laugh and jest through it all; strange to say, perhaps the number increases as the evil days close in. There are balls, dances, theatres; it is the policy of the authorities to keep up the hideous mask of gaiety, lest people should realise too truly what is beneath. But every thing seems to lie under the ban of fear. A truth, a rumour, becomes a terror, a hundred exaggerated reports add to the actual horrors. Thank God, again, you who have never known it. In all Charville, perhaps, the most miserable and the most frightened of those who had what Nannon called the fever-fright, was little Monsieur Roulleau. He wanted to go away when first it broke out in any severity, but madame was inexorable. Between his fear of her and his fear of the fever he did not know what to do. "Zenobie," he would say imploringly, "it is so long since we have had any change!" "It will be longer yet," answered madame, with decision. "You are foolish to attempt to blind me, Ignace. Do you not suppose I know why you want to go?" For a time she held him in check, but at last the other fear became the strongest. He came in one day with his face white and his hand shaking. "There is a case in Place Notre Dame." "What of that?" "It is my nerves. They are not like yours, my angel. If we stay here longer I shall have it by to-morrow. I feel it. And the children--"