“Listen again--listen well to me! So then, I have made no will--I did not desire to do so--and then I knew what you were; you have a good heart; you are not niggardly, not too near, in any way; I said to myself that when my end approached I would tell you all about it, and that I would beg of you not to forget the girl. And then listen again! When I am gone, make your way to the place at once--and make such arrangements that she may not blame my memory. You have plenty of means. I leave it to you--I leave you enough. Listen! You won't find her at home every day in the week. She works at Madame Moreau's in the Rue Beauvoisine. Go there on a Thursday. That is the day she expects me. It has been my day for the past six years. Poor little thing! she will weep!--I say all this to you because I have known you so well, my son. One does not tell these things in public either to the notary or to the priest. They happen--everyone knows that--but they are not talked about, save in case of necessity. Then there is no outsider in the secret, nobody except the family, because the family consists of one person alone. You understand?” “Yes, father.” “Do you promise?” “Yes, father.” “Do you swear it?” “Yes, father.” “I beg of you, I implore of you, so do not forget. I bind you to it.” “No, father.” “You will go yourself. I want you to make sure of everything.” “Yes, father.” “And, then, you will see--you will see what she will explain to you. As for me, I can say no more to you. You have vowed to do it.” “Yes, father.” “That's good, my son. Embrace me. Farewell. I am going to break up, I'm sure. Tell them they may come in.” Young Hautot embraced his father, groaning while he did so; then, always docile, he opened the door, and the priest appeared in a white surplice, carrying the holy oils. But the dying man had closed his eyes and he refused to open them again, he refused to answer, he refused to show, even by a sign, that he understood. He had spoken enough, this man; he could speak no more. Besides he now felt his heart calm; he wanted to die in peace. What need had he to make a confession to the deputy of God, since he had just done so to his son, who constituted his own family? He received the last rites, was purified and absolved, in the midst of his friends and his servants on their bended knees, without any movement of his face indicating that he still lived. He expired about midnight, after four hours' convulsive movements, which showed that he must have suffered dreadfully in his last moments. II. It was on the following Tuesday that they buried him; the shooting had opened on Sunday. On his return home, after having accompanied his father to the cemetery, César Hautot spent the rest of the day weeping. He scarcely slept at all on the following night, and he felt so sad on awakening that he asked himself how he could go on living.