ght live until six o'clock, the pulse should
be stronger. I have still some hope, however, but the second movement is
almost imperceptible, the heart will soon cease to beat."

And in faint, despairing accents he called on Clotilde again and again.
The immeasurable grief which he felt at not being able to see her again
broke forth in this faltering and agonized appeal. Then his anxiety
about his manuscripts returned, an ardent entreaty shone in his eyes,
until at last he found the strength to falter again:

"Do not leave me; the key is under my pillow; tell Clotilde to take it;
she has my directions."

At ten minutes to four another hypodermic injection was given, but
without effect. And just as four o'clock was striking, the second attack
declared itself. Suddenly, after a fit of suffocation, he threw himself
out of bed; he desired to rise, to walk, in a last revival of his
strength. A need of space, of light, of air, urged him toward the skies.
Then there came to him an irresistible appeal from life, his whole life,
from the adjoining workroom, where he had spent his days. And he went
there, staggering, suffocating, bending to the left side, supporting
himself by the furniture.

Dr. Ramond precipitated himself quickly toward him to stop him, crying:

"Master, master! lie down again, I entreat you!"

But Pascal paid no heed to him, obstinately determined to die on his
feet. The desire to live, the heroic idea of work, alone survived in
him, carrying him onward bodily. He faltered hoarsely:

"No, no--out there, out there--"

His friend was obliged to support him, and he walked thus, stumbling and
haggard, to the end of the workroom, and dropped into his chair beside
his table, on which an unfinished page still lay among a confusion of
papers and books.

Here he gasped for breath and his eyes closed. After a moment he opened
them again, while his hands groped about, seeking his work, no doubt.
They encountered the genealogical tree in the midst of other papers
scattered about. Only two days before he had corrected some dates in it.
He recognized it, and drawing it toward him, spread it out.

"Master, master! you will kill yourself!" cried Ramond, overcome with
pity and admiration at this extraordinary spectacle.

Pascal did not listen, did not hear. He felt a pencil under his fingers.
He took it and bent over the tree, as if his dying eyes no longer saw.
The name of Maxime arrested his attention, and he wrote