“And, then, you will see—you will see what she will explain to you. As for me, I can say no more to you. You have vowed to do it.”
“Yes, father.”
“That's good, my son. Embrace me. Farewell. I am going to break up, I'm sure. Tell them they may come in.”
Young Hautot embraced his father, groaning while he did so; then, always docile, he opened the door, and the priest appeared in a white surplice, carrying the holy oils.
But the dying man had closed his eyes and he refused to open them again, he refused to answer, he refused to show, even by a sign, that he understood.
He had spoken enough, this man; he could speak no more. Besides he now felt his heart calm; he wanted to die in peace. What need had he to make a confession to the deputy of God, since he had just done so to his son, who constituted his own family?
He received the last rites, was purified and absolved, in the midst of his friends and his servants on their bended knees, without any movement of his face indicating that he still lived.
He expired about midnight, after four hours' convulsive movements, which showed that he must have suffered dreadfully in his last moments.