The ceremonies continued with the majestic solemnity of that faithful age, but the old man had no faith. He did not implore the pity of Heaven with cries of anguish of the “Kyrie;” he did not, with the “Gloria in Excelsis,” sing the splendours of the heavenly heights; the reading of the Testament did not draw him from his materialistic reverie, and he forgot to join in the homage of the “Credo.” This proud old man remained motionless, as insensible and silent as a stone statue; and even at the solemn moment when the bell announced the miracle of transubstantiation, he did not bow his head, but gazed directly at the sacred host which the priest raised above the heads of the faithful. Gerande looked at her father, and a flood of tears moistened her missal. At this moment the clock of Saint Pierre struck half-past eleven. Master Zacharius turned quickly towards this ancient clock which still spoke. It seemed to him as if its face was gazing steadily at him; the figures of the hours shone as if they had been engraved in lines of fire, and the hands shot forth electric sparks from their sharp points. [Illustration: This proud old man remained motionless] The mass ended. It was customary for the “Angelus” to be said at noon, and the priests, before leaving the altar, waited for the clock to strike the hour of twelve. In a few moments this prayer would ascend to the feet of the Virgin. But suddenly a harsh noise was heard. Master Zacharius uttered a piercing cry. The large hand of the clock, having reached twelve, had abruptly stopped, and the clock did not strike the hour. Gerande hastened to her father’s aid. He had fallen down motionless, and they carried him outside the church. “It is the death-blow!” murmured Gerande, sobbing. When he had been borne home, Master Zacharius lay upon his bed utterly crushed. Life seemed only to still exist on the surface of his body, like the last whiffs of smoke about a lamp just extinguished. When he came to his senses, Aubert and Gerande were leaning over him. In these last moments the future took in his eyes the shape of the present. He saw his daughter alone, without a protector. “My son,” said he to Aubert, “I give my daughter to thee.” So saying, he stretched out his hands towards his two children, who were thus united at his death-bed. But soon Master Zacharius lifted himself up in a paroxysm of rage. The words of the little old man recurred to his mind. “I do not wish to die!” he cried; “I cannot die! I, Master Zacharius, ought not to die! My books—my accounts!—” With these words he sprang from his bed towards a book in which the names of his customers and the articles which had been sold to them were inscribed. He seized it and rapidly turned over its leaves, and his emaciated finger fixed itself on one of the pages.