Every day he brought to her some delicacy: a basket of fruit, a nosegay, or some bonbons. Never was a brother more devoted to a sister than was he to the afflicted child. The treatment to which he resorted seemed certain. It was now only a question of time, and each day the affection between the two grew stronger.
“Fortunately I am rich, and when she is strong enough I will establish her in a little flower-stall wherever she wishes it to be located.”
Then the hot weather came and Eugène redoubled his precautions and care. One day, however, he found a little white spot upon the flesh where the burn had resisted his treatment.
Calling the chief surgeon, he showed him the spot and expressed his own fears in a whisper. “That is nothing,” said the surgeon. “Don’t worry about it.”
He prescribed another application, but on the following day Madelaine was worse. Then Eugène called in consultation the most famous practitioners in all Paris, but in vain.
Twenty-four hours later the young girl died in his arms. Science had failed to save her.
The grief-stricken young physician thus depreciated the art of healing: “For what purpose is science? What matters it how hard one studies or how deeply one delves into scientific research if one can do nothing at a time like this? Science, after all, is only an illusion, and the scientists are humbugs. I do not wish to deceive those who come to me in confidence. I will renounce this so-called science. I will not be a physician.”
His decision was irrevocable. But as he was by nature fond of work he could not remain idle or aimless, and accordingly three months later he began the study of painting. After four years in this pursuit he abandoned it to study law. Whatever he undertook he did well, and his brilliant attainments won for him the respect of every one. But he spoiled everything by always and at every step exacting of himself perfection. The men with whom he came in contact must be irreproachable. To see wickedness and immorality on all sides was terrible to him. The means which men employed to succeed in life disgusted him. Here and there he saw that men of brains often fell short of success, while dull and irresponsible men were on the top wave of prosperity, and these glimpses of life shocked his too sensitive nature.
It is a decided mistake not to take humanity for what it is worth, without stopping to speculate and to moralize. But poor Eugène could not understand the frailty of mankind, and so one day at the age of thirty-five, disillusioned, not knowing what to do, regretting his own unworthiness, but convinced that a man truly honest and pure-minded will strive to make his own life unimpeachable before criticising the foibles of others, he realized how little real good he had done in the world. Visions of the fields and hedges of Morvan came to his mind, and finally he returned to his native town to put all his knowledge and acquirements at the service of his unsophisticated neighbors.
Twenty years later he still dwelt at St. Benoit, where a fellow-citizen could not construct a house, fell a tree, marry a girl, make a will, buy a meadow or undertake a lawsuit without consulting Monsieur Eugène. Always good-natured and generous, he gave himself up unreservedly to all their interests. He cured their wounds, settled their disputes, and advised them in their conduct, and only asked in return a little gratitude.