tasted　all　the　pleasures　of　childhood　again；　thanks　to　the　strange
  hallucination　of　apparent　convalescence；　which　is　not　unlike　the
  pauses　of　delirium　that　nature　mercifully　provides　for　those　in　pain。
  He　went　about　making　trifling　discoveries；　setting　to　work　on　endless
  things；　and　finishing　none　of　them；　the　evening's　plans　were　quite
  forgotten　in　the　morning；　he　had　no　cares；　he　was　happy；　he　thought
  himself　saved。
  One　morning　he　had　lain　in　bed　till　noon；　deep　in　the　dreams　between
  sleep　and　waking；　which　give　to　realities　a　fantastic　appearance；　and
  make　the　wildest　fancies　seem　solid　facts；　while　he　was　still
  uncertain　that　he　was　not　dreaming　yet；　he　suddenly　heard　his　hostess
  giving　a　report　of　his　health　to　Jonathan；　for　the　first　time。
  Jonathan　came　to　inquire　after　him　daily；　and　the　Auvergnate；　thinking
  no　doubt　that　Valentin　was　still　asleep；　had　not　lowered　the　tones　of
  a　voice　developed　in　mountain　air。
  〃No　better　and　no　worse；〃　she　said。　〃He　coughed　all　last　night　again
  fit　to　kill　himself。　Poor　gentleman；　he　coughs　and　spits　till　it　is
  piteous。　My　husband　and　I　often　wonder　to　each　other　where　he　gets　the
  strength　from　to　cough　like　that。　It　goes　to　your　heart。　What　a　cursed
  complaint　it　is！　He　has　no　strength　at　all。　I　am　always　afraid　I　shall
  find　him　dead　in　his　bed　some　morning。　He　is　every　bit　as　pale　as　a
  waxen　Christ。　DAME！　I　watch　him　while　he　dresses；　his　poor　body　is　as
  thin　as　a　nail。　And　he　does　not　feel　well　now；　but　no　matter。　It's　all
  the　same；　he　wears　himself　out　with　running　about　as　if　he　had　health
  and　to　spare。　All　the　same；　he　is　very　brave；　for　he　never　complains
  at　all。　But　really　he　would　be　better　under　the　earth　than　on　it；　for
  he　is　enduring　the　agonies　of　Christ。　I　don't　wish　that　myself；　sir；
  it　is　quite　in　our　interests；　but　even　if　he　didn't　pay　us　what　he
  does；　I　should　be　just　as　fond　of　him；　it　is　not　our　own　interest　that
  is　our　motive。
  〃Ah；　mon　Dieu！〃　she　continued；　〃Parisians　are　the　people　for　these
  dogs'　diseases。　Where　did　he　catch　it；　now？　Poor　young　man！　And　he　is
  so　sure　that　he　is　going　to　get　well！　That　fever　just　gnaws　him；　you
  know；　it　eats　him　away；　it　will　be　the　death　of　him。　He　has　no　notion
  whatever　of　that；　he　does　not　know　it；　sir；　he　sees　nothingYou
  mustn't　cry　about　him；　M。　Jonathan；　you　must　remember　that　he　will　be
  happy；　and　will　not　suffer　any　more。　You　ought　to　make　a　neuvaine　for
  him；　I　have　seen　wonderful　cures　come　of　the　nine　days'　prayer；　and　I
  would　gladly　pay　for　a　wax　taper　to　save　such　a　gentle　creature；　so
  good　he　is；　a　paschal　lamb〃
  As　Raphael's　voice　had　grown　too　weak　to　allow　him　to　make　himself
  heard；　he　was　compelled　to　listen　to　this　horrible　loquacity。　His
  irritation；　however；　drove　him　out　of　bed　at　length；　and　he　appeared
  upon　the　threshold。
  〃Old　scoundrel！〃　he　shouted　to　Jonathan；　〃do　you　mean　to　put　me　to
  death？〃
  The　peasant　woman　took　him　for　a　ghost；　and　fled。
  〃I　forbid　you　to　have　any　anxiety　whatever　about　my　health；〃　Raphael
  went　on。
  〃Yes；　my　Lord　Marquis；〃　said　the　old　servant；　wiping　away　his　tears。
  〃And　for　the　future　you　had　very　much　better　not　come　here　without　my
  orders。〃
  Jonathan　meant　to　be　obedient；　but　in　the　look　full　of　pity　and
  devotion　that　he　gave　the　Marquis　before　he　went；　Raphael　read　his　own
  death…warrant。　Utterly　disheartened；　brought　all　at　once　to　a　sense　of
  his　real　position；　Valentin　sat　down　on　the　threshold；　locked　his　arms
  across　his　chest；　and　bowed　his　head。　Jonathan　turned　to　his　master　in
  alarm；　with　〃My　Lord〃
  〃Go　away；　go　away；〃　cried　the　invalid。
  In　the　hours　of　the　next　morning；　Raphael　climbed　the　crags；　and　sat
  down　in　a　mossy　cleft　in　the　rocks；　whence　he　could　see　the　narrow
  path　along　which　the　water　for　the　dwelling　was　carried。　At　the　base
  of　the　hill　he　saw　Jonathan　in　conversation　with　the　Auvergnate。　Some
  malicious　power　interpreted　for　him　all　the　woman's　forebodings；　and
  filled　the　breeze　and　the　silence　with　her　ominous　words。　Thrilled
  with　horror；　he　took　refuge　among　the　highest　summits　of　the
  mountains；　and　stayed　there　till　the　evening；　but　yet　he　could　not
  drive　away　the　gloomy　presentiments　awakened　within　him　in　such　an
  unfortunate　manner　by　a　cruel　solicitude　on　his　account。
  The　Auvergne　peasant　herself　suddenly　appeared　before　him　like　a
  shadow　in　the　dusk；　a　perverse　freak　of　the　poet　within　him　found　a
  vague　resemblance　between　her　black　and　white　striped　petticoat　and
  the　bony　frame　of　a　spectre。
  〃The　damp　is　falling　now；　sir；〃　said　she。　〃If　you　stop　out　there；　you
  will　go　off　just　like　rotten　fruit。　You　must　come　in。　It　isn't　healthy
  to　breathe　the　damp；　and　you　have　taken　nothing　since　the　morning；
  besides。〃
  〃TONNERRE　DE　DIEU！　old　witch；〃　he　cried；　〃let　me　live　after　my　own
  fashion；　I　tell　you；　or　I　shall　be　off　altogether。　It　is　quite　bad
  enough　to　dig　my　grave　every　morning；　you　might　let　it　alone　in　the
  evenings　at　least〃
  〃Your　grave；　sir！　I　dig　your　grave！and　where　may　your　grave　be？　I
  want　to　see　you　as　old　as　father　there；　and　not　in　your　grave　by　any
  manner　of　means。　The　grave！　that　comes　soon　enough　for　us　all；　in　the
  grave〃
  〃That　is　enough；〃　said　Raphael。
  〃Take　my　arm；　sir。〃
  〃No。〃
  The　feeling　of　pity　in　others　is　very　difficult　for　a　man　to　bear；　and
  it　is　hardest　of　all　when　the　pity　is　deserved。　Hatred　is　a　tonicit
  quickens　life　and　stimulates　revenge；　but　pity　is　death　to　usit
  makes　our　weakness　weaker　still。　It　is　as　if　distress　simpered
  ingratiatingly　at　us；　contempt　lurks　in　the　tenderness；　or　tenderness
  in　an　affront。　In　the　centenarian　Raphael　saw　triumphant　pity；　a
  wondering　pity　in　the　child's　eyes；　an　officious　pity　in　the　woman；
  and　in　her　husband　a　pity　that　had　an　interested　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　before　his　eyes　with　tantalizing
  grace。　Sometimes　the　Allier；　a　liquid　shining　ribbon；　meandered
  through　the　distant　fertile　landscape；　then　followed　the　steeples　of
  hamlets；　hiding　modestly　in　the　depths　of　a　ravine　with　its　yellow
  cliffs；　sometimes；　after　the　monotony　of　vineyards；　the　watermills　of
  a　little　valley　would　be　suddenly　seen；　and　everywhere　there　were
  pleasant　chateaux；　hillside　villages；　roads　with　their　fringes　of
  queenly　poplars；　and　the　Loire　itself；　at　last；　with　its　wide　sheets
  of　water　sparkling　like　diamonds　amid　its　golden　sands。　Attractions
  everywhere；　without　end！　This　nature；　all　astir　with　a　life　and
  gladness　like　that　of　childhood；　scarcely　able　to　contain　the　impulses
  and　sap　of　June；　possessed　a　fatal　attraction　for　the　darkened　gaze　of
  the　invalid。　He　drew　the　blinds　of　his　carriage　windows；　and　betook
  himself　again　to　slumber。
  Towards　evening；　after　they　had　passed　Cesne；　he　was　awakened　by
  lively　music；　and　found　himself　confronted　with　a　village　fair。