"And you know of no remedy—no means of—"
"None!" said the doctor.
And, covering his face with his hands, he sank into a chair overcome by grief.
In face of the profound emotion of his old friend, Anatole understood that he was really condemned.
He hurried from the doctor's house like a madman. His forehead bathed in cold perspiration, his ideas all confused, going he knew not whither, he sped on and on amid the darkness of the night, taking no heed of the loneliness of the streets he was traversing. For a long time he pursued this blind course, until at length, finding a bench, he sank down upon it.
How many hours had he still to live?
The persistent and distressing sound of a racking cough brought him back to consciousness; he looked in the direction whence it came and saw, seated upon the same bench, a pale and weak little flower-girl—a child not more than eight years old, who as François Coppée says,
"Dies of the winter while offering us the spring."
That verse of the poet's recurred to the mind of Anatole; he felt in his waistcoat-pocket and found there two sous and two louis. He was going to give the poor child the two sous; but recollecting that he had only a few hours longer to live, he gave her the two louis.
This incident did him good.
He had been like a man stunned by a blow on the head; his bewilderment was overcome now, and he began to reassemble his dislocated ideas.
"My situation," he said to himself, "is that of a man condemned to death. A man in that position may still, however, hope for pardon—many of that sort are pardoned in our days. In past times even, some have been saved from the axe or the cord, to devote themselves to some difficult or dangerous piece of work—the launching of a ship, for example, or, as in the time of Louis XI., to marry an old woman. If I were consulted in the matter, I should prefer to launch a ship. Unfortunately, I shall not be consulted during the short interval of time that remains to me. But, by the way, how long have I got to live?"
He looked at his watch.
"Three o'clock in the morning—it is time to go to bed. To bed!—waste in sleep my last six hours! Not if I know it. I have certainly something better than that to do. But what? Of course—to make my will."
A restaurant—one of those which keep open all night—was not far off. Anatole entered it.
"Garçon, a bottle of champagne—and ink and paper."
He drank a glass of Cliquot and looked thoughtfully at the sheet of paper before him.
"To whom shall I bequeath my six thousand francs a year? I have neither father nor mother—happily for them! Amongst the persons who interest me, I see only one—Nicette."
Nicette was a charming girl of eighteen, with blonde tresses and large black eyes; an orphan like himself—a community in misfortune which had long established between them a secret and complete sympathy.
His last will and testament was speedily drawn up: universal legatee, Nicette.
That done, he drank a second glass of champagne.
"Poor Nicette," he mused; "she was very sad when I last saw her. Her guardian, who knows nothing of the world outside his class of wind instruments at the Conservatoire de Musique, had taken upon himself to promise her hand to a brute of an amateur of fencing whom she detests—the more because she has given her heart to somebody else. Who is that happy mortal?—I haven't the least idea; but he is certainly worthy of her, or she would never have chosen him. Good, gentle, beautiful, loving Nicette deserves the ideal of husbands. Ah! she is the very wife that would have suited me, if—if—. By Jove, it's an infamy, to compel her to destroy her life—by confiding such a treasure to such a brute! I have never before so well understood the generous ardour which fired the breasts of the wandering knights, and spurred them on to the deliverance of oppressed beauty!—And, now I come to think of it, what hinders me from becoming the knight-errant of Nicette? My fate is settled—at nine o'clock—after that it will be too late; now, therefore, is the time for action! The hour is a little unusual for visiting people; but, when I reflect that, five hours hence, I shall be no more, I conclude that I have no time for standing on etiquette. Forward!—my life for Nicette!"
Anatole rose and then, perceiving that he had no money, he gave his gold watch
