elf
that the key of the press was there.

But one morning when he had overslept himself, and did not leave
his room until eleven o'clock, he saw Clotilde in the study, quietly
occupied in copying with great exactness in pastel a branch of flowering
almond. She looked up, smiling; and taking a key that was lying beside
her on the desk, she offered it to him, saying:

"Here, master."

Surprised, not yet comprehending, he looked at the object which she held
toward him.

"What is that?" he asked.

"It is the key of the press, which you must have dropped from your
pocket yesterday, and which I picked up here this morning."

Pascal took it with extraordinary emotion. He looked at it, and then at
Clotilde. Was it ended, then? She would persecute him no more. She was
no longer eager to rob everything, to burn everything. And seeing her
still smiling, she also looking moved, an immense joy filled his heart.

He caught her in his arms, crying:

"Ah, little girl, if we might only not be too unhappy!"

Then he opened a drawer of his table and threw the key into it, as he
used to do formerly.

From this time on he gained strength, and his convalescence progressed
more rapidly. Relapses were still possible, for he was still very weak.
But he was able to write, and this made the days less heavy. The sun,
too, shone more brightly, the study being so warm at times that it
became necessary to half close the shutters. He refused to see visitors,
barely tolerated Martine, and had his mother told that he was sleeping,
when she came at long intervals to inquire for him. He was happy only in
this delightful solitude, nursed by the rebel, the enemy of yesterday,
the docile pupil of to-day. They would often sit together in silence
for a long time, without feeling any constraint. They meditated, or lost
themselves in infinitely sweet reveries.

One day, however, Pascal seemed very grave. He was now convinced
that his illness had resulted from purely accidental causes, and that
heredity had had no part in it. But this filled him none the less with
humility.

"My God!" he murmured, "how insignificant we are! I who thought myself
so strong, who was so proud of my sane reason! And here have I barely
escaped being made insane by a little trouble and overwork!"

He was silent, and sank again into thought. After a time his eyes
brightened, he had conquered himself. And in a moment of reason and
courage, he came to a resolution.

"If