Early in June his condition became still worse. The nights were so painful that, every evening, recourse had to be had to pantopon.[35] It was with the greatest impatience that he awaited his "dear Darré and dear Salimbeni," as he called them. [35] Pantopon is a narcotic drug prepared from opium. After Dr. Darré had finished his complete and thorough medical examination, we three remained talking around Elie's bed for a short hour. He often recalled his personal or scientific memories when he was not too weary; we talked of the war, of medical questions; often, too, we would evoke, with Salimbeni, recollections of our journey to the Kalmuk Steppes. We loved that peaceful hour, which ended by an injection of pantopon, the only relief, alas, that could be procured for him. He would thank Dr. Darré with gratitude, and drop his poor weary head on the pillow, awaiting in absolute security the blessed sensation of warm heaviness which pervaded him, for he knew that sleep and rest from his sufferings would not be long in coming. The spectre of tragical nights never ceased to haunt us. Until the hot weather came, he was quite comfortable in the small flat in the Pasteur hospital; the temperature there had been perfectly regular all through the winter; but now he began to be incommoded by the heat. M. Roux then proposed that we should be transferred to Pasteur's old flat; the rooms were spacious and much cooler. This idea rejoiced and touched Elie very much. As he thanked M. Roux, he said to him: "See how my life is bound with the Pasteur Institute. I have worked here for years; I am nursed here during my illness; in order to complete the connection I ought to be incinerated in the great oven where our dead animals are burnt, and my ashes could be kept in an urn in one of the cupboards in the library." "What a gruesome joke!" answered M. Roux, really taking those words for a joke. But directly after he was gone Elie turned to me with an anxious look and said, "Well, what do you think of my idea?" I saw by his earnest expression that he meant what he said, and I answered that I thought it a very good idea. The Pasteur Institute had become his refuge, the centre of all his scientific interests; he loved it; he had spent his best years there. Let his ashes be laid there some day; it would be in perfect harmony with his past. Let us only hope that would not be too soon! But why had he given his words that jesting form which must have misled M. Roux? He explained it to me: knowing how deeply conscientious his friend was, he did not wish to express his desire as a dying wish in order that he should feel no obligation. A simple jest, on the contrary, left him absolutely free.