His whole attitude, his whole expression was gathering itself together, or rather was fixing itself in its highest character: he had not ceased to command. And my first word, my only word, was a consent to his command. “Father,” I said, standing beside the bed. I did not utter the word in the sense of filial piety, but because his ascendency subjugated me, overawed me. Yes, in this dimly lighted chamber, heavy with the odour of medicines, suffering and fever, that complex odour which is as it were the advance herald of death, I mechanically came back into subordination, as a soldier about to desert returns to his place in the ranks under the eye of his chief. I was aware of this change in myself. That mysticism in which I had so revelled and which isolated me from all the universe, melted away like clouds before the first rays of dawn. I recognised my dependence, and all the truth of my childish thoughts when they used to begin by making the tour of the house, and the antiquity and the justice of the power still held in those weakening hands, which clasped with pale rigid fingers a little crucifix which at first I had not observed. I thought I had spoken aloud, but he could not have heard me, for he did not turn toward me. I could hear his low voice--that voice that I remembered so ringing--whispering as if he were, reciting a litany. “What is he saying?” I asked softly of my mother, who drew near. “Your names,” she murmured. “Listen!” Yes, one after another he was naming us all. Those of the three elder had already passed his lips: he pronounced that of Louise. It was my turn, but he passed it and named Nicola, then James. The omission hurt me cruelly, but I had hardly had time to feel it when I heard my name, last of all, detached and set apart. Suddenly I remembered Martinod’s odious insinuations as to his preference for one of my brothers; and I understood that no one of us was the favourite, but that just because of the anxiety I had given I had been the object of a special solicitude. The irresistible desire swept over me to reveal to him, in a word, the change that had suddenly taken place in me. He used to dwell with such interest and even such respect upon our vocation--believing that it would be the basis of our whole life--I had systematically put aside mine, to make sure of my liberty. Now, with full conviction, I had recovered it. Taking a step forward I said firmly: “Father, I am here. It is I. Upon the mountain I reflected. Don’t you know? I want to be a doctor, like you.” On the mountain? That was not true, but did not piety command me to conceal the cause of my change of mind? He did not show the joy that I expected--perhaps he could no longer show joy over anything. Perhaps another work, the last, that of detachment, was going on in him. He lifted to me his almost terrifying eyes. “Francis,” he repeated.