ted motive; but no matter how the sentiment declared
itself, death was always its import.

A poet makes a poem of everything; it is tragical or joyful, as things
happen to strike his imagination; his lofty soul rejects all half-tones;
he always prefers vivid and decided colors. In Raphael's soul this
compassion produced a terrible poem of mourning and melancholy. When
he had wished to live in close contact with nature, he had of course
forgotten how freely natural emotions are expressed. He would think
himself quite alone under a tree, whilst he struggled with an obstinate
coughing fit, a terrible combat from which he never issued victorious
without utter exhaustion afterwards; and then he would meet the clear,
bright eyes of the little boy, who occupied the post of sentinel, like
a savage in a bent of grass; the eyes scrutinized him with a childish
wonder, in which there was as much amusement as pleasure, and an
indescribable mixture of indifference and interest. The awful _Brother,
you must die_, of the Trappists seemed constantly legible in the eyes
of the peasants with whom Raphael was living; he scarcely knew which
he dreaded most, their unfettered talk or their silence; their presence
became torture.

One morning he saw two men in black prowling about in his neighborhood,
who furtively studied him and took observations. They made as though
they had come there for a stroll, and asked him a few indifferent
questions, to which he returned short answers. He recognized them both.
One was the _cure_ and the other the doctor at the springs; Jonathan had
no doubt sent them, or the people in the house had called them in, or
the scent of an approaching death had drawn them thither. He beheld his
own funeral, heard the chanting of the priests, and counted the tall wax
candles; and all that lovely fertile nature around him, in whose lap
he had thought to find life once more, he saw no longer, save through a
veil of crape. Everything that but lately had spoken of length of days
to him, now prophesied a speedy end. He set out the next day for Paris,
not before he had been inundated with cordial wishes, which the people
of the house uttered in melancholy and wistful tones for his benefit.

He traveled through the night, and awoke as they passed through one of
the pleasant valleys of the Bourbonnais. View after view swam before his
gaze, and passed rapidly away like the vague pictures of a dream.
Cruel nature spread herself out