the
sight of the old professor, living so completely happy in his solitude,
filled him at first with astonishment. He could never have imagined such
a thing possible, as that a man of sixty-nine should live thus, without
wife or child, or even a dog, deriving his selfish happiness from
the joy of living outside of life. Then he recalled his fits of anger
against this man, his sarcasms about his fear of life, the catastrophes
which he had wished might happen to him, the hope that punishment would
come to him, in the shape of some housekeeper, or some female relation
dropping down on him unexpectedly. But no, he was still as fresh as
ever, and Pascal was sure that for a long time to come he would continue
to grow old like this, hard, avaricious, useless, and happy. And yet
he no longer execrated him; he could even have found it in his heart
to pity him, so ridiculous and miserable did he think him for not being
loved. Pascal, who suffered the pangs of death because he was alone!
He whose heart was breaking because he was too full of others. Rather
suffering, suffering only, than this selfishness, this death of all
there is in us of living and human!

In the night which followed Pascal had another attack of angina
pectoris. It lasted for five minutes, and he thought that he would
suffocate without having the strength to call Martine. Then when he
recovered his breath, he did not disturb himself, preferring to speak to
no one of this aggravation of his malady; but he had the certainty that
it was all over with him, that he might not perhaps live a month longer.
His first thought was Clotilde. Should he then never see her again? and
so sharp a pang seized him that he believed another attack was coming
on. Why should he not write to her to come to him? He had received a
letter from her the day before; he would answer it this morning. Then
the thought of the envelopes occurred to him. If he should die suddenly,
his mother would be the mistress and she would destroy them; and not
only the envelopes, but his manuscripts, all his papers, thirty years of
his intelligence and his labor. Thus the crime which he had so greatly
dreaded would be consummated, the crime of which the fear alone, during
his nights of fever, had made him get up out of bed trembling, his ear
on the stretch, listening to hear if they were forcing open the press.
The perspiration broke out upon him, he saw himself dispossessed,
outraged, the ashes of his work