witnessed a like spectacle had he stayed there. But all such news was mercifully kept from him.
"One day," wrote his son, "the pen dropped from his hands, and he began to sleep." Like his own Porthos, the child of his virile brain, Dumas was struggling with all a Titan's strength against the forces of nature which weighed upon him and which were slowly crushing and stifling the life from his giant frame and his great heart. All night, and almost all the day, he slept; and if, with his old desire for work, he took pen in hand, no responsive thought nerved the fingers; the weapon with which he had once wrought such wonders fell from his nerveless fingers. Excess of labour, far more than excess of pleasure, had made the brain mute at last.
In his brief moments of light Dumas would play with his son's children, or would sit where his nurses placed him on the beach, gazing, motionless, at the sea, thinking long, long thoughts.
On the morning of December 5th, 1870, a priest was sent for. He found son and daughter on their knees by the side of the dying man. The good curé called his penitent by name, and Dumas slowly opened his eyes. He could not speak. He died that afternoon.
