remembered with what unrelenting ferocity misfortune had fallen on that
unhappy man and aged him. But a few years had gone by, and now, when they
met again, he was bowed down by destiny.

"You did not know, I suppose, that I had remained at Lourdes?" said the
doctor. "It's true that I no longer write to anybody; in fact, I am no
longer among the living. I live in the land of the dead." Tears were
gathering in his eyes, and emotion made his voice falter as he resumed:
"There! come and sit down on that bench yonder; it will please me to live
the old days afresh with you, just for a moment."

In his turn the young priest felt his sobs choking him. He could only
murmur: "Ah! my dear doctor, my old friend, I can truly tell you that I
pitied you with my whole heart, my whole soul."

Doctor Chassaigne's story was one of disaster, the shipwreck of a life.
He and his daughter Marguerite, a tall and lovable girl of twenty, had
gone to Cauterets with Madame Chassaigne, the model wife and mother,
whose state of health had made them somewhat anxious. A fortnight had
elapsed and she seemed much better, and was already planning several
pleasure trips, when one morning she was found dead in her bed. Her
husband and daughter were overwhelmed, stupefied by this sudden blow,
this cruel treachery of death. The doctor, who belonged to Bartres, had a
family vault in the Lourdes cemetery, a vault constructed at his own
expense, and in which his father and mother already rested. He desired,
therefore, that his wife should be interred there, in a compartment
adjoining that in which he expected soon to lie himself. And after the
burial he had lingered for a week at Lourdes, when Marguerite, who was
with him, was seized with a great shivering, and, taking to her bed one
evening, died two days afterwards without her distracted father being