Is this not a genuine bit of antiquity without a modern touch in it, like a bas-relief taken from the temple of Hercules at Thebes or of Theseus at Athens? [1] Do not let it be thought for one moment that it is in order to make out any intimacy whatsoever with the two famous historians, whom I have several times mentioned, that I say Thiers and Mignet; theirs are names which have won the privilege of being presented to the public without the banal title of _monsieur._ CHAPTER XI Adèle--Her devotion to Rabbe--Strong meat--_Appel à Dieu_--_L'âme et la comédie humaine_--_La mort_--_Ultime lettere_--Suicide_--À Alphonse Rabbe_, by Victor Hugo We have been forgetful, more than forgetful, even ungrateful, in saying that Rabbe's one and only consolation was his pipe; there was another. A young girl, named Adèle, spent three years with him; but those three happy years only added fresh sorrows to Rabbe, for, soon, the beautiful fresh girl drooped like a flower at whose roots a worm is gnawing; she bowed her head, suffered for a year, then died. History has made much stir about certain devoted attachments; no devotion could have been purer or more disinterested than the unnoticed devotion of this young girl, all the more complete that she crowned it with her death. A subject of this nature is either stated in three brief lines of bald fact, or is extended over a couple of volumes as a psychological study. Poor Adèle! We have but four lines, and the memory of your devotion to offer you! Her death drove Rabbe to despair; from that time dates the most abandoned period of his life. Rabbe found out not only that the seeds of destruction were in him, but that they emanated from him. His wails of despair from that moment became bitter and frequent; and his thoughts turned incessantly towards suicide so that they might become accustomed to the idea. Certain memoranda hung always in his sight; he called them his _pain des forts_; they were, indeed, the spiritual bread he fed himself on. We will give a few examples of his most remarkable thoughts from this lugubrious diary:-- "The whole life of man is but one journey towards death." * "Man, from whence comes thy pride? It was a mistake for thee to have been conceived; thy birth is a misfortune; thy life a labour; thy death inevitable." * "Thou living corpse! When wilt thou return to the dust? O solitude! O death! I have drunk deep of thy austere delights. You are my loves! the only ones that are faithful to me!" * "Every hour that passes by drives us towards the tomb and is hastened by the advance of those that precede it." * "Bitter and cruel is the absence of God's face from me. How much longer wilt Thou make me suffer?" * "Reflect in the morning that by night you may be no longer here; and at night, that by morning you may have died." *