This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> [NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an entire meal of them. D.W.] CONFESSION OF A CHILD OF THE CENTURY (Confession d'un Enfant du Siecle) By ALFRED DE MUSSET BOOK 2. PART III CHAPTER I DEATH, THE INEVITABLE My father lived in the country some distance from Paris. When I arrived I found a physician in the house, who said to me: "You are too late; your father expressed a desire to see you before he died." I entered, and saw my father dead. "Sir," I said to the physician, "please have everyone retire that I may be alone here; my father had something to say to me, and he will say it." In obedience to my order the servants left the room. I approached the bed and raised the shroud which covered the face. But when my eyes fell on that countenance, I stooped to kiss it and lost consciousness. When I recovered, I heard some one say: "If he requests it, you must refuse him on some pretext or other." I understood that they wanted to get me away from the bed of death, and so I feigned that I had heard nothing. When they saw that I was resting quietly, they left me. I waited until the house was quiet, and then took a candle and made my way to my father's room. I found there a young priest seated near the bed. "Sir," I said, "to dispute with an orphan the last vigil at a father's side is a bold enterprise. I do not know what your orders may be. You may remain in the adjoining room; if anything happens, I alone am responsible." He retired. A single candle on the table shone on the bed. I sat down in the chair the priest had just left, and again uncovered those features I was to see for the last time. "What do you wish to say to me, father?" I asked. "What was your last thought concerning your child?" My father had a book in which he was accustomed to write from day to day the record of his life. That book lay on the table, and I saw that it was open; I kneeled before it; on the page were these words and no more: "Adieu, my son, I love you and I die." I did not shed a tear, not a sob came from my lips; my throat was swollen and my mouth sealed; I looked at my father without moving. He knew my life, and my irregularities had caused him much sorrow and anxiety. He did not refer to my future, to my youth and my follies. His advice had often saved me from some evil course, and had influenced my entire life, for his life had been one of singular virtue and kindness. I supposed that before dying he wished to see me to try once more to turn me from the path of error; but death had come too swiftly; he felt that he could express all he had to say in one word, and he wrote in his book that he loved me. CHAPTER II THE BALM OF SOLITUDE