If but the feeling of self-orientation which was so necessary to him could only be depended upon, he felt that in time he would have pluck enough to bear anything. Indeed, total eclipse was less appalling, in its finality, than that miserable sword of Damocles which had been hanging over him for months--robbing him of his manhood--poisoning all the springs of life. Why not make life-long endurance of evil a study, a hobby, and a pride; and be patient as bronze or marble, and ever wear an invincible smile at grief, even when in darkness and alone? Why not, indeed! And he set himself then and there to smile invincibly, meaning to keep on smiling for fifty years at least--the blind live long. [Illustration: "'HELAS! MON JEUNE AMI ... '"] So he chatted to himself, saying _Sursum cor! Sursum corda!_ all the way home; and walking down the Grand Brul, he had a little adventure which absolutely gave him a hearty guffaw and sent him almost laughing to bed. There was a noisy squabble between some soldiers and civilians on the opposite side of the way, and a group of men in blouses were looking on. Barty stood leaning against a lamp-post, and looked on too. Suddenly a small soldier rushed at the blouses, brandishing his short straight sword (or _coupe-choux_, as it is called in civilian slang), and saying: "Ça ne vous regarde pas, savez-vous! allez-vous en bien vite, ou je vous ..." The blouses fled like sheep. Then as he caught sight of Barty he reached at him. "Ça ne vous regarde pas, savez-vous!..." (It doesn't concern you.) "Non--c'est moi qui regarde, savez-vous!" said Barty. "Qu'est-ce que vous regardez?" "Je regarde la lune et les étoiles. Je regarde la comète!" "Voulez-vous bien vous en aller bien vite?" "Une autre fois!" says Barty. "Allez-vous en, je vous dis!" "Après-demain!" "Vous ... ne ... voulez ... pas ... vous ... en ... aller?" says the soldier, on tiptoe, his chest against Barty's stomach, his nose almost up to Barty's chin, glaring up like a fiend and poising his _coupe-choux_ for a death-stroke. "_Non_, sacré petit pousse-cailloux du diable!" roars Barty. "Eh bien, restez où vous êtes!" and the little man plunged back into the fray on the opposite side--and no blood was shed after all. Barty dreamt of this adventure, and woke up laughing at it in the small hours of that night. Then, suddenly, in the dark, he remembered the horror of what had happened. It overwhelmed him. He realized, as in a sudden illuminating flash, what life meant for him hence-forward--life that might last for so many years. Vitality is at its lowest ebb at that time of night; though the brain is quick to perceive, and so clear that its logic seems inexorable. It was hell. It was not to be borne a moment longer. It must be put an end to at once. He tried to feel the north, but could not. He would kill himself then and there, while his aunt was away; so that the horror of the sight of him, after, should at least be spared her.