t die at any
moment. And this helped to perfect his character, to elevate him to a
complete forgetfulness of self. He did not cease to work, but he had
never understood so well how much effort must seek its reward in itself,
the work being always transitory, and remaining of necessity incomplete.
One evening at dinner Martine informed him that Sarteur, the journeyman
hatter, the former inmate of the asylum at the Tulettes, had just hanged
himself. All the evening he thought of this strange case, of this man
whom he had believed he had cured of homicidal mania by his treatment of
hypodermic injections, and who, seized by a fresh attack, had evidently
had sufficient lucidity to hang himself, instead of springing at the
throat of some passer-by. He again saw him, so gentle, so reasonable,
kissing his hands, while he was advising him to return to his life of
healthful labor. What then was this destructive and transforming force,
the desire to murder, changing to suicide, death performing its task
in spite of everything? With the death of this man his last vestige of
pride as a healer disappeared; and each day when he returned to his work
he felt as if he were only a learner, spelling out his task, constantly
seeking the truth, which as constantly receded from him, assuming ever
more formidable proportions.

But in the midst of his resignation one thought still troubled him--what
would become of Bonhomme, his old horse, if he himself should die before
him? The poor brute, completely blind and his limbs paralyzed, did
not now leave his litter. When his master went to see him, however, he
turned his head, he could feel the two hearty kisses which were pressed
on his nose. All the neighbors shrugged their shoulders and joked about
this old relation whom the doctor would not allow to be slaughtered. Was
he then to be the first to go, with the thought that the knacker would
be called in on the following day. But one morning, when he entered the
stable, Bonhomme did not hear him, did not raise his head. He was dead;
he lay there, with a peaceful expression, as if relieved that death had
come to him so gently. His master knelt beside him and kissed him again
and bade him farewell, while two big tears rolled down his cheeks.

It was on this day that Pascal saw his neighbor, M. Bellombre, for the
last time. Going over to the window he perceived him in his garden, in
the pale sunshine of early November, taking his accustomed walk; and