hem. He had
still the power to control himself, and his countenance gave no evidence
of the wound which he had just received. He would assuredly die of it,
and no one would suspect the malady which had carried him off. But it
was a relief to him to be able to give vent to his feelings, and he
declared violently that he would not take even so much as a glass of
tisane.

"Take care of myself!" he cried; "what for? Is it not all over with my
old carcass?"

Ramond insisted, with a good-tempered smile.

"You are sounder than any of us. This is a trifling disturbance, and
you know that you have the remedy in your own hands. Use your hypodermic
injection."

Pascal did not allow him to finish. This filled the measure of his rage.
He angrily asked if they wished him to kill himself, as he had killed
Lafouasse. His injections! A pretty invention, of which he had good
reason to be proud. He abjured medicine, and he swore that he would
never again go near a patient. When people were no longer good for
anything they ought to die; that would be the best thing for everybody.
And that was what he was going to try to do, so as to have done with it
all.

"Bah! bah!" said Ramond at last, resolving to take his leave, through
fear of exciting him still further; "I will leave you with Clotilde; I
am not at all uneasy, Clotilde will take care of you."

But Pascal had on this morning received the final blow. He took to his
bed toward evening, and remained for two whole days without opening
the door of his room. It was in vain that Clotilde, at last becoming
alarmed, knocked loudly at the door. There was no answer. Martine went
in her turn and begged monsieur, through the keyhole, at least to tell
her if he needed anything. A deathlike silence reigned; the room seemed
to be empty.

Then, on the morning of the third day, as the young girl by chance
turned the knob, the door yielded; perhaps it had been unlocked for
hours. And she might enter freely this room in which she had never set
foot: a large room, rendered cold by its northern exposure, in which she
saw a small iron bed without curtains, a shower bath in a corner, a long
black wooden table, a few chairs, and on the table, on the floor, along
the walls, an array of chemical apparatus, mortars, furnaces, machines,
instrument cases. Pascal, up and dressed, was sitting on the edge of his
bed, in trying to arrange which he had exhausted himself.

"Don't you want me to nurse you, the