So Barty sang it to them; and so beautifully that they were all but melted to tears--especially the monsieur, who was evidently very sentimental and very much in love. Besides, there was that ineffable charm of the pure French intonation, so caressing to the Belgian ear, so dear to the Belgian soul, so unattainable by Flemish lips. It was one of Barty's most successful ditties--and if I were a middle-aged burgher of Mechelen, I shouldn't much like to have a young French Barty singing "Cours, mon aiguille" to the girl of my heart. Then, at their desire, he went on singing things till it was time to leave, and he found he had spent quite a happy evening; nothing gave him greater pleasure than singing to people who liked it--and he went singing on his way home, dreamily staring at the rare gas-lamps and the huge comet, and thinking of his old grandfather who lay dying or dead: "Cours, mon aiguille, it is good to live--it is good to die!" Suddenly he discovered that when he looked at one lamp, another lamp close to it on the right was completely eclipsed--and he soon found that a portion of his right eye, not far from the centre, was totally sightless. The shock was so great that he had to lean against a buttress of St. Rombault for support. When he got home he tested the sight of his eye with a two-franc piece on the green table-cloth, and found there was no mistake--a portion of his remaining eye was stone-blind. He spent a miserable night, and went next day to Louvain, to see the oculist. M. Noiret heard his story, arranged the dark room and the lamp, dilated the right pupil with atropine, and made a minute examination with the ophthalmoscope. Then he became very thoughtful, and led the way to his library and begged Barty to sit down; and began to talk to him very seriously indeed, like a father--patting the while a small Italian greyhound that lay and shivered and whined in a little round cot by the fire. M. Noiret began by inquiring into his circumstances, which were not nourishing, as we know--and Barty made no secret of them; then he asked him if he were fond of music, and was pleased to hear that he was, since it is such an immense resource; then he asked him if he belonged to the Roman Catholic faith, and again was pleased. "For"--said he--"you will need all your courage and all your religion to hear and bear what it is my misfortune to have to tell you. I hope you will have more fortitude than another young patient of mine (also an artist) to whom I was obliged to make a similar communication. He blew out his brains on my door-step!" "I promise you I will not do that. I suppose I am going blind?"