n, the doctor
might very justly entertain the hope of living another year. He gave his
reasons--the comparatively slight progress which the sclerosis had made,
and the absolute soundness of the other organs. Of course they must
make allowance for what they did not and could not know, for a sudden
accident was always possible. And the two men discussed the case as if
they been in consultation at the bedside of a patient, weighing the
pros and cons, each stating his views and prognosticating a fatal
termination, in accordance with the symptoms as defined by the best
authorities.

Pascal, as if it were some one else who was in question, had recovered
all his composure and his heroic self-forgetfulness.

"Yes," he murmured at last, "you are right; a year of life is still
possible. Ah, my friend, how I wish I might live two years; a mad wish,
no doubt, an eternity of joy. And yet, two years, that would not
be impossible. I had a very curious case once, a wheelwright of
the faubourg, who lived for four years, giving the lie to all my
prognostications. Two years, two years, I will live two years! I must
live two years!"

Ramond sat with bent head, without answering. He was beginning to
be uneasy, fearing that he had shown himself too optimistic; and the
doctor's joy disquieted and grieved him, as if this very exaltation,
this disturbance of a once strong brain, warned him of a secret and
imminent danger.

"Did you not wish to send that despatch at once?" he said.

"Yes, yes, go quickly, my good Ramond, and come back again to see us the
day after to-morrow. She will be here then, and I want you to come and
embrace us."

The day was long, and the following morning, at about four o'clock,
shortly after Pascal had fallen asleep, after a happy vigil filled with
hopes and dreams, he was wakened by a dreadful attack. He felt as if an
enormous weight, as if the whole house, had fallen down upon his chest,
so that the thorax, flattened down, touched the back. He could not
breathe; the pain reached the shoulders, then the neck, and paralyzed
the left arm. But he was perfectly conscious; he had the feeling that
his heart was about to stop, that life was about to leave him, in the
dreadful oppression, like that of a vise, which was suffocating him.
Before the attack reached its height he had the strength to rise and to
knock on the floor with a stick for Martine. Then he fell back on his
bed, unable to speak or to move, and covere