“For my part,” said he in a voice choked by emotion, “I shall never in my life forget their smallest details.
“Monsieur,” he continued after a moment of silence, “I have only two sons. The youngest, about whom I am going to tell you, is called Jules. He will come in before long. You will see how sweet, pure, and good he is.”
M. Lacassagne did not tell me all his affection for this youngest son. But the accent of his voice, which became gentle and as it were caressing in speaking of this child, showed me all the depth of his paternal love. I understood that in that strong and tender feeling was concentrated all the force of this manly soul.
“His health,” continued he, “was excellent until the age of ten.
“At that period there came on unexpectedly, and without apparent physical cause, a disease the importance of which I did not at first appreciate. On the 25th of January, 1865, when we were sitting down to supper, Jules complained of a trouble in his throat which prevented him from swallowing any solid food. He had to limit himself to a little soup.
“This state of things continuing next day, I called in Dr. Noguès, one of the most distinguished physicians of Toulouse.
“‘The difficulty comes from the nerves,’ said he—which gave me hopes of a speedy cure.
“In fact, a few days afterwards, the boy was able to eat, and I thought all was over, when the trouble returned,
and continued with occasional intermissions till the end of April. It then became fixed. The poor child had to live entirely on liquids; on milk, the juice of meat, and broth. Even the broth had to be very clear, for such was the narrowness of the orifice that it was absolutely impossible for him to swallow anything solid, even tapioca.
“The poor boy, reduced to such miserable diet, was becoming visibly emaciated, and was dying slowly.