Down there, on the Brittany strand, he began the legend of Saint Julian the Hospitaller, which was immediately followed by A Simple Soul and Hérodias. He wrote these three stories rapidly and then took up Bouvard and Pécuchet again, a heavy care, under which he must die.
Few existences bear witness to unity so complete as his: his letters show that at nine years of age he was preoccupied with art as if he were fifty. His life, as has been stated by all those who have spoken about him, was, from the awakening of his intelligence to the day of his death, the long development of the same passion—Literature. He sacrificed all to that; his love and tenderness were never separated from his art. Did he regret in the last years of his life that he had not followed the common route? Some words which came from his lips one day when we were walking beside the Seine made me think so: we had just visited one of my friends whom we had found among her charming children. “They are in the right,” he said to me, alluding to that household of the honest and good family; “Yes,” he repeated to himself, gravely, “they are in the right.” I did not trouble his thoughts, but remained silent by his side. This walk was one of our last.
Death took him in full health. It was at evening, and his letter was all good cheer, expressing the joy he felt at seeing himself confirmed in a conjecture that he had made regarding a plant. He had written me these interesting lines upon his work, of which only a few pages remained: “I am right! I have the assurance of the Professor of Botany in the Jardin des Plantes, and I was right; because the æsthetic is true, and to a certain intellectual degree (when one has some method) one is not deceived; the reality does not yield to the ideal, but confirms it. It has been necessary for me to make three journeys into different regions for Bouvard and Pécuchet before finding their setting, that best fit for action. Ah! ha! I have triumphed! I flatter myself it is a success!”
He had made arrangements to set out for Paris to join me again. It was the day of his departure, he was coming from the bath and mounting to his study; the cook was going up to serve his breakfast, when she heard him call and hastened to him. Already his tense fingers could not loosen a bottle of salts which he held in his hand. He tried to utter some words that were unintelligible in which she could distinguish: “Eylau—go—bring—avenue—I know him—”
A letter received from me that morning had told him that Victor Hugo was going to live in the Avenue d’Eylau; it was without doubt a remembrance of this news that he had in mind, as well as an appeal for help. He was cared for by his neighbor and friend, Doctor Fortin.
The last glimmer of his thought evoked the great poet who had caused his whole nature to vibrate. Immediately he fell into unconsciousness. Some moments later they found that he no longer breathed. Apoplexy had been the thunderbolt.
Caroline Commanville.
Paris, December, 1886.