n, very
quietly, and desired nothing more. At last the mother died. How sad a
thing is life! He has lived always alone, and now, in his turn, he, too,
will soon be dead. He will disappear, and that will be the finish. There
will be no more of Savel upon the earth. What a frightful thing! Other
people will live, they will live, they 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.

If, however, his life had been complete! If he had done something; if he
had had adventures, grand pleasures, successes, satisfaction of some kind
or another. But now, nothing. He had done nothing, never anything but
rise from bed, eat, at the same hours, and go to bed again. And he has
gone on like that, to the age of sixty-two years. He had not even taken
unto himself a wife, as other men do. Why? Yes, why was it that he was
not married? He might have been, for he possessed considerable means. Was
it an opportunity which had failed him? Perhaps! But one can create
opportunities. He was indifferent; that was all. Indifference had been
his greatest drawback, his defect, his vice. Have some men missed their
lives through indifference! To certain natures, it is so difficult for
them to get out of bed, to move about, to take long walks, to speak, to
study any question.

He had not even been in love. No woman had reposed on his bosom, in a
complete abandon of love. He knew nothing of this delicious anguish of
expectation, of the divine quivering of the pressed hand, of the ecstacy
of triumphant passion.

What superhuman happiness must inundate your heart, when lips encounter
lips for the first time, when the grasp of four arms makes one being of
you, a being unutterably happy, two beings infatuated with one another.

M. Savel was sitting down, his feet on the fender, in his dressing gown.
Assuredly his life had been spoiled, completely spoiled. He had, however,
loved. He had loved secretly, dolorously and indifferently, just as was
characteristic of him in everything. Yes, he had loved his old friend,
Madame Saudres, the wife of his old companion, Saudres. Ah! if he had
known her as a young girl! But he had encountered her too late; she was
already married. Unquestionably he