I shall die happy. Ah! well,
after all, I do not wish to live; I cannot stand this much longer;
this pain that grows worse and worse. But, oh! to see them, to touch
their dresses--ah! nothing but their dresses, that is very little;
still, to feel something that belongs to them. Let me touch their hair
with my fingers . . . their hair . . ."
His head fell back on the pillow, as if a sudden heavy blow had struck
him down, but his hands groped feebly over the quilt, as if to find
his daughters' hair.
"My blessing on them . . ." he said, making an effort, "my
blessing . . ."
His voice died away. Just at that moment Bianchon came into the room.
"I met Christophe," he said; "he is gone for your cab."
Then he looked at the patient, and raised the closed eyelids with his
fingers. The two students saw how dead and lustreless the eyes beneath
had grown.
"He will not get over this, I am sure," said Bianchon. He felt the old
man's pulse, and laid a hand over his heart.
"The machinery works still; more is the pity, in his state it would be
better for him to die."
"Ah! my word, it would!"
"What is the matter with you? You are as pale as death.
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