eard, lying down, discoursing like a
sage, the other sitting at his bedside, listening with the respect of a
disciple.

"In truth," murmured the master, as if he were speaking to himself, "the
effect of those injections is extraordinary."

Then in a stronger voice, he said almost gaily:

"My friend Ramond, it may not be a very great present that I am giving
you, but I am going to leave you my manuscripts. Yes, Clotilde has
orders to send them to you when I shall be no more. Look through them,
and you will perhaps find among them things that are not so very bad. If
you get a good idea from them some day--well, that will be so much the
better for the world."

And then he made his scientific testament. He was clearly conscious
that he had been himself only a solitary pioneer, a precursor, planning
theories which he tried to put in practise, but which failed because
of the imperfection of his method. He recalled his enthusiasm when he
believed he had discovered, in his injections of nerve substance, the
universal panacea, then his disappointments, his fits of despair, the
shocking death of Lafouasse, consumption carrying off Valentin in spite
of all his efforts, madness again conquering Sarteur and causing him to
hang himself. So that he would depart full of doubt, having no longer
the confidence necessary to the physician, and so enamored of life that
he had ended by putting all his faith in it, certain that it must draw
from itself alone its health and strength. But he did not wish to close
up the future; he was glad, on the contrary, to bequeath his hypotheses
to the younger generation. Every twenty years theories changed;
established truths only, on which science continued to build, remained
unshaken. Even if he had only the merit of giving to science a momentary
hypothesis, his work would not be lost, for progress consisted assuredly
in the effort, in the onward march of the intellect.

And then who could say that he had died in vain, troubled and weary, his
hopes concerning the injections unrealized--other workers would come,
young, ardent, confident, who would take up the idea, elucidate it,
expand it. And perhaps a new epoch, a new world would date from this.

"Ah, my dear Ramond," he continued, "if one could only live life over
again. Yes, I would take up my idea again, for I have been struck lately
by the singular efficacy of injections even of pure water. It is not the
liquid, then, that matters, but simply