Life tasted good to me after my illness, better than ever before; the flavor of everything was enhanced, and I sat down to the world’s table as Lazarus must have done, with a sharpened appetite. One day after hours, my foreman and I were in the shop amusing ourselves with a wrestling bout, when a neighbor looked in on his way from Morvan and told me that he had seen my wife there. I asked him how she was getting along. He said, “She was leaving when I saw her, making for a better world as fast as she was able.” “It won’t be the better for her coming,” said one would-be wit, and another cried, “Good luck never comes single; you stay with us, Colas, and she goes!” And he drank to my health. I felt somewhat shaky, but not wishing to show it, I too held up my glass and answered, “When the gods love a man they take his wife away!” But I could not swallow the wine, it seemed tasteless, and suddenly starting up, I seized my stick and went out without saying another word. They called after me, but my heart was in my throat, and I could not answer. It was all very well to say that I did not love her, and that we had been constantly rubbing one another up the wrong way for the last thirty years; she had lain by my side in the narrow bed, and from her had sprung the seed I planted; and now that the pale shadow was near her, I felt a cold hand laid on my heart; it was as if a part of my flesh was torn from me, and though I had often wished to be rid of her, now I pitied her and myself, and--Heaven forgive me!--I almost loved her! I arrived the next day at nightfall, and as soon as I came near my wife I could see on her face the hand of the great sculptor, and under the wrinkled skin the tragic mask of Death. There was a yet more certain sign, for she smiled as I came in, and said: “Why, poor old man, I hope the walk has not tired you!”