How can I describe those last three days? He preserved all his lucidity and serenity, often smiling at me and drawing me towards him. He inhaled oxygen very often, as breathlessness became almost continuous. On the 14th there was to be a _matinée_ performance of _Manon Lescaut_, and remembering that his god-children had long wished to see that opera, he had had a box taken for them. He was now quite uneasy about it. "What ill-luck," he said, "if _it_ happened just before and prevented them from going. In any case they must not come here on their way to the theatre, so that if _it_ happens they will not know, and can still enjoy the performance." Thanks to pantopon, he spent a very good night. He awoke about five o'clock, but remained so quiet that I thought him asleep. When I rose about six he held out his hand to me and told me he had been awake for a long time. He talked to me tenderly, in the full intimacy of our affection; he spoke sweet, unforgettable words. He made me promise once again not to give way to grief. "At first, our friends will help you, and then work, that infallible remedy, and duty.... You will have that of writing my biography. Remember how much I wish the _last_ chapter to be complete. You alone can write it, for you have seen me all the time; I have told you all my thoughts, and yet...." I understood that he had occasionally, out of pity for me, hidden his sufferings and his sad thoughts. But he did not know how often I guessed what he did not say; love and pain have a dumb language, more eloquent than any human words. "You will hold my hand when the moment comes," he repeated. "But do not think I am afraid, now that it is near. No, I assure you, I have an absolute serenity of soul! I spent a divine night. It seemed to me that I was already half outside life. This night has taught me many things.... Everything which troubled me, everything that seemed so disturbing, so terrible, like this war for instance, seems so transitory now, such a small thing by the side of the great problems of existence!... Science will solve them some day." He ceased speaking. He seemed illumined by a very exalted feeling; it was like the last chord of his harmonious soul. What a consolation if he could have died then! But life is cruel. He lived through two more days of suffering. On the 14th he inhaled oxygen almost continually. He asked for pantopon, but we feared to give him too much. I told him it would induce such continuous sleep that he would not even be able to enjoy it. "But an eternal sleep is precisely what I want! Do understand that now nothing is left to me but pantopon. What is the good of making me last? Is this a life? A few days or a month have no importance when one is not going to recover. And you cannot wish to prolong my sufferings." His breathlessness increased; he said, "Give me your hand; stay near me!" I knew what he meant; he had the "death-sensation."