: "Died of ataxia
in 1873," in the certainty that his nephew would not live through the
year. Then Clotilde's name, beside it, struck him and he completed the
note thus: "Has a son, by her Uncle Pascal, in 1874." But it was his own
name that he sought wearily and confusedly. When he at last found it
his hand grew firmer, and he finished his note, in upright and bold
characters: "Died of heart disease, November 7, 1873." This was the
supreme effort, the rattle in his throat increased, everything was
fading into nothingness, when he perceived the blank leaf above
Clotilde's name. His vision grew dark, his fingers could no longer hold
the pencil, but he was still able to add, in unsteady letters, into
which passed the tortured tenderness, the wild disorder of his poor
heart: "The unknown child, to be born in 1874. What will it be?" Then he
swooned, and Martine and Ramond with difficulty carried him back to bed.

The third attack came on about four o'clock. In this last access of
suffocation Pascal's countenance expressed excruciating suffering. Death
was to be very painful; he must endure to the end his martyrdom, as a
man and a scientist. His wandering gaze still seemed to seek the clock,
to ascertain the hour. And Ramond, seeing his lips move, bent down and
placed his ear to the mouth of the dying man. The latter, in effect, was
stammering some vague words, so faint that they scarcely rose above a
breath:

"Four o'clock--the heart is stopping; no more red blood in the
aorta--the valve relaxes and bursts."

A dreadful spasm shook him; his breathing grew fainter.

"Its progress is too rapid. Do not leave me; the key is under the
pillow--Clotilde, Clotilde--"

At the foot of the bed Martine was kneeling, choked with sobs. She
saw well that monsieur was dying. She had not dared to go for a priest
notwithstanding her great desire to do so; and she was herself reciting
the prayers for the dying; she prayed ardently that God would pardon
monsieur, and that monsieur might go straight to Paradise.

Pascal was dying. His face was quite blue. After a few seconds of
immobility, he tried to breathe: he put out his lips, opened his poor
mouth, like a little bird opening its beak to get a last mouthful of
air. And he was dead.

XIII.

It was not until after breakfast, at about one o'clock, that Clotilde
received the despatch. On this day it had chanced that she had quarreled
with her brother Maxime, who, taking advantag