would vanish in its turn, and it would be for nothing then that
it had been so passionately desired. The thought saddened and
calmed him. He thought, as he stood before these gewgaws from
the tomb, of all these men who, in the abyss of bygone time,
had in turn loved, coveted, enjoyed, suffered, whom death had
taken, hungry or satiated, and made an end of the appetites of
all alike. A placid melancholy swept over him and held him
motionless, his face buried in his hands.




XI

It was at breakfast the next morning that Jean noticed, for the
first time, the venerable, kindly look of his father's face. In
truth, advancing years had invested the bookbinder's appearance
with a sort of beauty. The smooth forehead under the curling
white locks betokened a habit of peaceful and honest thoughts.
Old age, while rendering the play of the muscles less active,
veiled the distortion of the limbs due to long hours of labour
at the bench under the more affecting disfigurements which life
and _its_ long-drawn labours impress on all men alike. The old
man had read, thought, striven honestly to do his best, and won
the saving grace a simple faith bestows on the humble of heart;
for he had become a religious man and a regular attendant at
the church of his parish. Jean told himself it would be an easy
and a grateful task to cherish such a father, and he resolved to
inaugurate a life of toil and sacrifice. But he had no employment
and no notion what to do.