gazed upon this
new Eden, and whose prudent mouth let no sound escape save the word
"change," which he repeated several times.

At last I grew impatient; the walk seemed interminable, though very
short in reality, and I began to run, my heart beating wildly.

"Perhaps Edmee," I said to myself, "is here!"

However, she was not there, and I could only hear the voice of the
hermit saying:

"Now, then! What is the matter? Has the poor dog gone mad? Down,
Blaireau! You would never have worried your master in this way. This is
what comes of being too kind!"

"Blaireau is not mad!" I exclaimed, as I entered. "Have you grown deaf
to the approach of a friend, Master Patience?"

Patience, who was in the act of counting a pile of money, let it fall
on the table and came towards me with the old cordiality. I embraced him
heartily; he was surprised and touched at my joy. Then he examined
me from head to foot, and seemed to be wondering at the change in my
appearance, when Marcasse arrived at the door.

Then a sublime expression came over Patience's face, and lifting his
strong arms to heaven, he exclaimed:

"The words of the canticle! Now let me depart in peace; for mine eyes
have seen him I yearned for."

The hidalgo said nothing; he raised his hat as usual; then sitting down
he turned pale and shut his eyes. His dog jumped up on his knees and
displayed his affection by attempts at little cries which changed into
a series of sneezes (you remember that he was born dumb). Trembling with
old age and delight, he stretched out his pointed nose towards the long
nose of his master; but his master did not respond with the customary
"Down, Blaireau!"

Marcasse had fainted.

This loving soul, no more able than Blaireau to express itself in words,
had sunk beneath the weight of his own happiness. Patience ran
and fetched him a large mug of wine of the district, in its second
year--that is to say, the oldest and best possible. He made him swallow
a few drops; its strength revived him. The hidalgo excused his weakness
on the score of fatigue and the heat. He would not or could not assign
it to its real sense. There are souls who die out, after burning with
unsurpassable moral beauty and grandeur, without ever having found a
way, and even without ever having felt the need, of revealing themselves
to others.

When Patience, who was as demonstrative as his friend was the contrary,
had recovered from his first transports, he turned