nurse him, he would not even allow them to make his bed. All his
surroundings bore the marks of this last degree of apathy, the
furniture was out of place, the daintiest trifles were covered with
dust and cobwebs. In health he had been a man of refined and expensive
tastes, now he positively delighted in the comfortless look of the
room. A host of objects required in illness--rows of medicine bottles,
empty and full, most of them dirty, crumpled linen, and broken plates,
littered the writing-table, chairs, and chimney-piece. An open
warming-pan lay on the floor before the grate; a bath, still full of
mineral water had not been taken away. The sense of coming dissolution
pervaded all the details of an unsightly chaos. Signs of death
appeared in things inanimate before the Destroyer came to the body on
the bed. The Comte de Restaud could not bear the daylight, the
Venetian shutters were closed, darkness deepened the gloom in the
dismal chamber. The sick man himself had wasted greatly. All the life
in him seemed to have taken refuge in the still brilliant eyes. The
livid whiteness of his face was something horrible to see, enhanced as
it was by the long dank locks of hair that straggled along his cheeks,
for he would never suffer them to cut it. He looked like some
religious fanatic in the desert. Mental suffering was extinguishing
all human instincts in this man of scarce fifty years of age, whom all
Paris had known as so brilliant and so successful.

"One morning at the beginning of December 1824, he looked up at
Ernest, who sat at the foot of his bed gazing at his father with
wistful eyes.

"'Are you in pain?' the little Vicomte asked.

"'No,' said the Count, with a ghastly smile, 'it all lies _here and