est to his uncle and me to
send up prayers for him; "for those are," he said, "the best duties that
Christians can fulfil one for another." In the course of talking, his
shoulder was uncovered, and although a man-servant stood near him, he
asked his uncle to re-adjust the clothes. Then, turning his eyes towards
me, he said, "Ingenui est, cui multum debeas, ei plurimum velle debere."

M. de Belot called in the afternoon to see him, and M. de la Boetie,
taking his hand, said to him: "I was on the point of discharging my debt,
but my kind creditor has given me a little further time." A little while
after, appearing to wake out of a sort of reverie, he uttered words which
he had employed once or twice before in the course of his sickness:
"Ah well, ah well, whenever the hour comes, I await it with pleasure and
fortitude." And then, as they were holding his mouth open by force to
give him a draught, he observed to M. de Belot: "An vivere tanti est?"

As the evening approached, he began perceptibly to sink; and while I
supped, he sent for me to come, being no more than the shadow of a man,
or, as he put it himself, 'non homo, sed species hominis'; and he said to
me with the utmost difficulty: "My brother, my friend, please God I may
realise the imaginations I have just enjoyed." Afterwards, having waited
for some time while he remained silent, and by painful efforts was
drawing long sighs (for his tongue at this point began to refuse its
functions), I said, "What are they?" "Grand, grand!" he replied. "I
have never yet failed," returned I, "to have the honour of hearing your
conceptions and imaginations communicated to me; will you not now still
let me enjoy them?" "I would indeed," he answered; "but, my brother,
I am not able to do so; they are admirable, infinite, and unspeakable."
We stopped short there, for he could not go on. A little before, indeed,
he had shown a desire to speak to his wife, and had told her, with as gay
a countenance as he could contrive to assume, that he had a story to tell
her. And it seemed as if he was making an attempt to gain utterance;
but, his strength failing him, he begged a little wine to resuscitate it.
It was of no avail, for he fainted away suddenly, and was for some time
insensible. Having become so near a neighbour to death, and hearing the
sobs of Mademoiselle de la Boetie, he called her, and said to her thus:
"My own likeness, you grieve yourself beforehand; will you not