Cardinal Malipieri, whom we saw assisting at the sort of council held at the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s, now on his way to Rodin’s apartment, was dressed as a layman, but enveloped in an ample pelisse of puce-colored satin, which exhaled a strong odor of camphor, for the prelate had taken care to surround himself with all sorts of anti-cholera specifics.  Having reached the second story of the house, the cardinal knocked at a little gray door.  Nobody answering, he opened it, and, like a man to whom the locality was well known, passed through a sort of antechamber, and entered a room in which was a turn-up bed.  On a black wood table were many phials, which had contained different medicines.  The prelate’s countenance seemed uneasy and morose; his complexion was still yellow and bilious; the brown circle which surrounded his black, squinting eyes appeared still darker than usual.

Pausing a moment, he looked round him almost in fear, and several times stopped to smell at his anti-cholera bottle.  Then, seeing he was alone, he approached a glass over the chimney-piece, and examined with much attention the color of his tongue; after some minutes spent in this careful investigation, with the result of which he appeared tolerably satisfied, he took some preservative lozenges out of a golden box, and allowed them to melt in his mouth, whilst he closed his eyes with a sanctified air.  Having taken these sanitary precautions, and again pressed his bottle to his nose, the prelate prepared to enter the third room, when he heard a tolerably loud noise through the thin partition which separated him from it, and, stopping to listen, all that was said in the next apartment easily reached his ear.

“Now that my wounds are dressed, I will get up,” said weak, but sharp and imperious voice.

“Do not think of it, reverend father,” was answered in a stronger tone; “it is impossible.”

“You shall see if it is impossible,” replied the other voice.

“But, reverend father, you will kill yourself.  You are not in a state to get up.  You will expose yourself to a mortal relapse.  I cannot consent to it.”

To these words succeeded the noise of a faint struggle, mingled with groans more angry than plaintive, and the voice resumed:  “No, no, father; for your own safety, I will not leave your clothes within your reach.  It is almost time for your medicine; I will go and prepare it for you.”

Almost immediately after, the door opened, and the prelate saw enter a man of about twenty-five years of age, carrying on his arm an old olive great-coat and threadbare black trousers, which he threw down upon a chair.

This personage was Ange Modeste Rousselet, chief pupil of Dr. Baleinier; the countenance of the young practitioner was mild, humble, and reserved; his hair, very short in front, flowed down upon his neck behind.  He made a slight start in surprise on perceiving the cardinal, and bowed twice very low, without raising his eyes.