He tried to raise his hand to lay it upon my head. Though I leaned low over him he could not do it, and his arm fell back. I kneeled, that he might do it with less effort. He did not even try, as I had hoped, but in that low voice in which he had named us one by one, he said distinctly: “Your turn has come.” My mother, who was a little behind, drew near to ask me the same question that I had asked her: “What is he saying?” I made an instinctive movement as if to say that I did not precisely know--yet I had clearly heard him, and after a moment of hesitation, the expression ceased to be mysterious to me. I could see in it an evidence of confidence in the past. My father had not admitted my treachery, my enfranchisement, he had been sure that I would return to him; he counted upon me. But in its form as from beyond the tomb the utterance had a still deeper significance, which completely overcame me; my father was tendering to my weakness the royal crown of the family, inviting me to wear it after him, because I should be, at home, his successor, his heir. I had never thought of that. Did my mother understand the emotion which bowed and shattered me? She reminded me that I needed food after my long journey in the cold air, and went with me to the door. “Valentine,” murmured the sick man. “I am not leaving you, dear.” And she turned from me to hurry back to him. I did not leave the room, but remained and witnessed a scene which almost without words, apparently obscure and far away, was only all the more clear to me. My father began by saying: “Listen!” He was looking at no one at the moment; his eyes were fixed on the ceiling above him. He made no haste to speak, he was gathering himself together. An indescribable anguish swept over me. I divined that my presence had shaken him, and that he was collecting his thoughts as to the future of the family. What he had to say to my mother was doubtless his last wish on the subject. Had I not a right to hear, since _my turn had come_? Perhaps my mother, too, understood. She was at the bedside, leaning over, and the sheet which hung out against her knee shook slightly. I am sure I saw it shake--was it the trembling of her knee? And then I saw nothing except one face. My father was still silent. I could hear the monotonous moan of the fountain in the court. Mother urged him tenderly: “My love, my dear love ...” His mind was entirely lucid. He had _himself followed the progress of his disease_, he knew precisely how he was. At her words he seemed to emerge from the thoughts in which he was plunged; he turned his head slightly and looked at my mother with his almost awe-inspiring gaze, which penetrated deeply into her heart. “Valentine,” he repeated, simply. “You had something to say to me?” With infinite gentleness he murmured: “Oh, no, Valentine. I have nothing to say to you.”