She hastily stopped him. And it was in truth his kindness of heart, above all, that bled, that immense kindness of heart which sprang from his love of life, which he diffused over persons and things, in his continual care for the happiness of every one and everything. To be kind, was not this to love her, to make her happy, at the price of his own happiness? This was the kindness which it was necessary for him to exercise, and which he felt that he would one day exercise, heroic and decisive. But like the wretch who has resolved upon suicide, he waited for the opportunity, the hour, and the means, to carry out his design. Early one morning, on going into the workroom, Clotilde was surprised to see Dr. Pascal seated at his table. It was many weeks since he had either opened a book or touched a pen. “Why! you are working?” she said. Without raising his head he answered absently: “Yes; this is the genealogical tree that I had not even brought up to date.” She stood behind him for a few moments, looking at him writing. He was completing the notices of Aunt Dide, of Uncle Macquart, and of little Charles, writing the dates of their death. Then, as he did not stir, seeming not to know that she was there, waiting for the kisses and the smiles of other mornings, she walked idly over to the window and back again. “So you are in earnest,” she said, “you are really working?” “Certainly; you see I ought to have noted down these deaths last month. And I have a heap of work waiting there for me.” She looked at him fixedly, with that steady inquiring gaze with which she sought to read his thoughts. “Very well, let us work. If you have papers to examine, or notes to copy, give them to me.”