“We returned to the grotto, where I made the missionary acquainted with the project I had formed of remaining with him. The saint, who wonderfully understood the heart of man, penetrated my thought and the artfulness of my grief. He said: ‘Chactas, son of Outalissi, so long as Atala was alive, I myself desired that you should live with me; but at present your lot is changed; you owe yourself to your country. Believe me, my son, such griefs are not eternal. Sooner or later they wear themselves out, because the heart of man is finite. That is one of our great miseries; we are not even capable of being unhappy for a long time. Return to the Mississippi; go and console your mother, who weeps for you day by day, and who stands in need of your support. Get yourself instructed in Atala’s religion, whenever an opportunity presents itself; and remember that you promised her to be virtuous and Christian. I will watch over her tomb. Go, my son; God, your sister’s soul, and the heart of your old friend, will follow you!’ “Such was the language of the man of the rock. His authority was too great, his wisdom too profound, not to be obeyed. The next morning I quitted my venerable host, who, pressing me to his heart, gave me his last counsels, his last blessing, and his last tears. I went to the grave, and was surprised at finding a little cross placed over the body, as one may sometimes perceive the mast of a vessel that has been wrecked. I judged that the hermit had been there to pray during the night. This mark of friendship and religion caused me to shed an abundance of tears. I was almost tempted to re-open the tomb, in order to gaze once more upon my well-beloved; a religious fear withheld me. I sat down upon the recently-disturbed ground. With an elbow resting upon my knees, and my head supported by my hand, I remained buried for a time in a most bitter reverie. O René! it was then that, for the first time, I made serious reflections upon the vanity of our days, and the still greater vanity of our projects. Ah! my child, who has not made such reflections? I am no longer but an old stag whitened by the winters; my years compete with those of the crow. Well, in spite of the number of days accumulated over my head, in spite of such a long experience of life, I have not yet met with a man who had not been deceived in his dreams of happiness, nor a heart that did not contain a hidden wound.