And on thus learning what I had never imagined--the mere idea of which would have set all the forces of my soul in revolt--upon hearing that Clementine was no longer in this world, something like a great silence came upon me; and the feeling which flooded my whole being was not a keen, strong pain, but a quiet and solemn sorrow. Yet I was conscious of some incomprehensible sense of alleviation, and my thought rose suddenly to heights before unknown. “From wheresoever thou art at this moment, Clementine,” I said to myself, “look down upon this old heart now indeed cooled by age, yet whose blood once boiled for thy sake, and say whether it is not reanimated by the mere thought of being able to love all that remains of thee on earth. Everything passes away since thou thyself hast passed away; but Life is immortal; it is that Life we must love in its forms eternally renewed. All the rest is child’s play; and I myself, with all my books, am only like a child playing with marbles. The purpose of life--it is thou, Clementine, who has revealed it to me!”... Madame de Gabry aroused me from my thoughts by murmuring, “The child is poor.” “The daughter of Clementine is poor!” I exclaimed aloud; “how fortunate that is so! I would not whish that any one by myself should proved for her and dower her! No! the daughter of Clementine must not have her dowry from any one but me.” And, approaching Madame de Gabry as she rose from her chair, I took her right hand; I kissed that hand, and placed it on my arm, and said: “You will conduct me to the grave of the widow of Noel Alexandre.” And I heard Madame de Gabry asking me: “Why are you crying?” Chapter IV--The Little Saint-George April 16. Saint Drocoveus and the early abbots of Saint-Germain-des-Pres have been occupying me for the past forty years; but I do not know if I shall be able to write their history before I go to join them. It is already quite a long time since I became an old man. One day last year, on the Pont des Arts, one of my fellow members at the Institute was lamenting before me over the ennui of becoming old. “Still,” Saint-Beuve replied to him, “it is the only way that has yet been found of living a long time.” I have tried this way, and I know just what it is worth. The trouble of it is not that one lasts too long, but that one sees all about him pass away--mother, wife, friends, children. Nature makes and unmakes all these divine treasures with gloomy indifference, and at last we find that we have not loved, we have only been embracing shadows. But how sweet some shadows are! If ever creature glided like a shadow through the life of a man, it was certainly that young girl whom I fell in love with when--incredible though it now seems--I was myself a youth.