“It is not possible!” exclaimed Buck, dropping his pipe: “you mistake your own nature.”
“No: I know what I say. I have no fear of being wounded, or of being forced to suffer pain: I have none of that ignoble shrinking from danger which characterizes cowards. Yet I fear to die while still so young: I fear to die and leave Adéonne, whom I love. I fear to die without having seen my father and the dear old trees of the Capelette once more. For the last two hours, the thought that I may be slain to-morrow has given me a fit of home-sickness. I no longer seek to read the future. My eyes are turned to the past, where it seems to me I have never known any thing but happiness. The most humble creatures for whom I have cherished affection appear to have taken a firmer hold upon my heart. There remain to me, perhaps, not more than fifteen hours of life. I would give seven of them to once more behold big Katy, a peasant who nursed me when an infant, and to embrace my poor dog Medor, who is blind.”
“Bah! All will go well,” said Paul. “Courage! You can count upon my services. To-morrow, at the hour indicated, I will visit your friend Clamens.”
Eusebe shook the hand of the painter, and departed. Paul, as soon as he found himself alone, thus soliloquized:—
“Poor fellow! He is right. It is hard to die at his age, when one has so many reasons to regret life. But who says he will die? It is hardly probable. If he should escape with a wound, he can go see his father and the dear old trees again, and continue to love his mistress. My father, now, is dead. When he was alive, we never had any other trees than those of the road. My mistress has fled. I do not possess even an old blind dog; and—I have just broken my pipe.”
And then, as the painter’s eyes fell upon the piece of gold left by Eusebe, he exclaimed,—
“However, I have no right to complain while I possess twenty francs,—the means to live well for one day, or to keep me from starving for at least two weeks.”