It would be impossible to describe the melancholy thoughts which the daily repetition of such a scene caused to spring up in my mind. I would listen with rapt attention to those old songs, whose simple rhythm suited so well the freshness and purity of Hélène's voice. The room in which we assembled in the evenings was called the salon of the Crusader, because above the great fireplace of carved stone was the representation of one of our ancestors, who bore the holy cross. This apartment was very large, and its walls were all tapestried with dark red damask. As my father's eyesight was very bad, we had two lamps, covered with green silk shades, placed on the piano in a manner to light the music desk only; thus, while the rest of the room remained in almost total obscurity, Hélène, seated at the piano, shone out in beautiful clearness. I can still see her beautiful blonde hair, her pretty throat, which looked so white against her large black fichu. And I can see my father as he sat by the chess-board, his head bowed in meditation, only visible in the red and dancing light reflected from the fire on the hearth. Towards ten o'clock my father would ring for his servants, who then assisted him to his own rooms, whither I accompanied him, and helped him to his bed. I slept in the room next to his, and very often in the night, being restless and agitated, I would get up to listen to his breathing. I would creep up cautiously to his bedside, but always found him with wide-open eyes, whose gaze was fixed on mine, for he never slept. This frightful insomnia, which the doctors attributed to the abuse of opium, and which they attempted in every manner to overcome, this continuous insomnia was what caused him to suffer the most. The tears still come into my eyes when I recall the tone of calm resignation with which he would say to me, "I am not asleep, I am not in need of anything,--go and rest yourself, my child." I sometimes shudder as I remember that for a period of seven months my father never slept a moment. Each day and each night he waited for the end, which he could see was slowly approaching. I have already said that his knowledge was almost universal; for this reason, although he had no practical knowledge of medicine, he was, unfortunately, sufficiently acquainted with its principles to understand and judge with certainty of his own condition. Eight months before his death he astounded the doctors by discussing with them his disease, and showing them his reasons for believing that it would inevitably end fatally,--even the time he probably had to live. And, however, with the terrible conviction that every day was bearing him nearer to the tomb, he never showed the least weakness nor the slightest regret. Never a complaint, never a word in allusion to his approaching end! Silence, always silence! and his life until the day of his death was such as I have described.