window, and from the window to the fireplace. Life has its sombre days.
It would no longer have any but sombre days for him, for he had reached
the age of sixty-two. He is alone, an old bachelor, with nobody about
him. How sad it is to die alone, all alone, without any one who is
devoted to you!

He pondered over his life, so barren, so empty. He recalled former
days, the days of his childhood, the home, the house of his parents; his
college days, his follies; the time he studied law in Paris, his
father's illness, his death. He then returned to live with his mother.
They lived together very quietly, and desired nothing more. At last the
mother died. How sad life is! He lived alone since then, and now, in
his turn, he, too, will soon be dead. He will disappear, and that will
be the end. There will be no more of Paul Saval upon the earth. What a
frightful thing! Other people will love, will laugh. Yes, people will
go on amusing themselves, and he will no longer exist! Is it not
strange that people can laugh, amuse themselves, be joyful under that
eternal certainty of death? If this death were only probable, one could
then have hope; but no, it is inevitable, as inevitable as that night
follows the day.

SHORT STORIES VOLUME XIII.

How I understood them, these who weak, harassed by misfortune, having
lost those they loved, awakened from the dream of a tardy compensation,
from the illusion of another existence where God will finally be just,
after having been ferocious, and their minds disabused of the mirages of
happiness, have given up the fight and desire to put an end to this
ceaseless tragedy, or this shameful comedy.

Suicide! Why, it is the strength of those whose strength is exhausted,
the hope of those who no longer believe, the sublime courage of the
conquered! Yes, there is at least one door to this life we can always
open and pass through to the other side. Nature had an impulse of pity;
she did not shut us up in prison. Mercy for the despairing!

If genius is, as is commonly believed, a sort of aberration of great
minds, then Algernon Charles Swinburne is undoubtedly a genius.

Great minds that are healthy are never considered geniuses, while this
sublime qualification is lavished on brains that are often inferior but
are slightly touched by madness.

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