sitting, with a long face, furrowed with wrinkles, and large, staring
eyes, and very correctly attired in a close-fitting coat and cravat.

"He is a wise man," murmured Clotilde. "He is happy."

"He!" cried Pascal. "I should hope not!"

He hated no one, and M. Bellombre, the old college professor, now
retired, and living in his little house without any other company than
that of a gardener who was deaf and dumb and older than himself, was
the only person who had the power to exasperate him.

"A fellow who has been afraid of life; think of that! afraid of life!
Yes, a hard and avaricious egotist! If he banished woman from his
existence, it was only through fear of having to pay for her shoes.
And he has known only the children of others, who have made him suffer
--hence his hatred of the child--that flesh made to be flogged. The
fear of life, the fear of burdens and of duties, of annoyances and of
catastrophes! The fear of life, which makes us through dread of its
sufferings refuse its joys. Ah! I tell you, this cowardliness enrages
me; I cannot forgive it. We must live--live a complete life--live all
our life. Better even suffering, suffering only, than such
renunciation--the death of all there is in us that is living and
human!"

M. Bellombre had risen, and was walking along one of the walks with
slow, tranquil steps. Then, Clotilde, who had been watching him in
silence, at last said:

"There is, however, the joy of renunciation. To renounce, not to live;