The night following the departure of Gabrielle was such a night as this, and Jean Baptiste, finding the heat of his attic insupportable, went out on the railed terrace that crowned the roof, and lay down under the stars. There was not a breath of air, and no sound to be heard but the steady murmur of the river in the valley below. The beasts that prowl by night made no noise; the bats flitted silently to and fro; now and then an owl passed like a shadow; here and there the lamp of a firefly glimmered and went out; and the stars twinkled wearily as though they would fain close their eyes in sleep. Jean did not sleep, but lay thinking of his past life, his ambitions and struggles, his hopes and fears, his successes and failures, as though trying to strike a balance of profit and loss that should give value to his life or show how empty it was of all worth and meaning. He had always assumed that life was worth living--but why? In God’s name, why? To know, to understand? He had read much in printed books and in the book of nature; he had tried to think, to guess, to imagine the answer to the riddle of existence, but with what result? All was mystery, shrouded in darkness, silent, speechless, with only a twinkling light here and there to lead--or mislead. To know? That could not be the end of life, for what could one know? Nothing. To love? Ah, there was something to fill the heart with joy--and pain. When one finds a human being so beautiful that one would gaze on her for ever, so sympathetic that in her company one has an enduring sense of harmony and peace, so dear that one would fain be with her until the end of time and afterwards in the eternal world--when one finds such perfection of loveliness, surely it is the perfection of existence to love and to be loved. Yes, but if one were not loved. If in the early morning she went away, of her own free will, to be the bride of another, what could one do with that consuming love but tear it from the heart, that one might give oneself heart and soul to the work of life? The work of life? There at last was something for the strong hand and brain, something to occupy the thought, to drive out the spirit of despair, to fill the life with action, to cause one to forget the mystery of existence and the shipwreck of love. To work, to build, to create, to find the expression of oneself in the work of one’s hands, and, finally, like God, to pronounce it good--there was achievement to satisfy the soul. If only the works of man, like the works of God, could last for ever! Yet even these would pass away. Out of the darkness of primeval chaos all had come; back to chaos and darkness all would go. Yes, even the works of God. And God Himself? What was He but the creator of a vain show, the spirit of deceit and futility? It is written that He repented that He had made Man. What wonder?