“There is good in this Christian,” said the vicar, “much good, and a while ago he really edified me with his beautiful sentences. But I am not without a certain apprehension, as everything depends on the end, and nobody knows what’s hidden at the bottom of the basket God in His kindness wills that one single moment brings us salvation, but this moment must be the last one, so that everything depends on a single minute, in comparison with which the whole life does not count. That’s what makes me tremble for the patient, over whom angels and devils are furiously quarrelling. But one must never despair of divine mercy.” CHAPTER XXI Death of M. Jérôme Coignard Two days passed in cruel alternations. After that my good master became extremely weak. “There is no more hope,” M. Coquebert told me. “Look how his head lies on the pillow, how thin his nose is.” As a fact, my good master’s nose, formerly big and red, was nothing now but a bent blade, livid like lead. “Tournebroche, my son,” he said to me in a voice still full and strong but of a sound quite strange to me, “I feel that I have but a short time to live. Go and fetch that good priest, that he may listen to my confession.” The vicar was in his vineyard. There I went. “The vintage is finished,” he said, “and more abundant than I had hoped for; now let’s go and help that poor fellow.” I conducted him to my master’s bedside and we left him alone with the dying. An hour later he came out again and said: “I can assure you that M. Jérôme Coignard dies in admirable sentiments of piety and humility. At his request, and in consideration of his fervour, I’ll give him the viaticum. During the time necessary for putting on my holy garments, you, Madame Coquebert, will do me the favour to send to the vestry the boy who serves me at mass every morning and make the room ready for the reception of God.” Madame Coquebert swept the room, put a white coverlet on the bed, placed a little table at the bedside, and covered it with a cloth; she put two candlesticks on the table and lit the candles, and an earthenware bowl wherein a sprig of box swam in the holy water. Soon we heard the tinkling of the little bell, saw the cross coming in, carried by a child, and the priest clad in white carrying the holy vessels. Jahel, M. d’Anquetil, Madame Coquebert and I fell on our knees. “_Pax huic domui_,” said the priest. “_Et omnibus habiantibus in en_,” replied the servitor. Then the vicar took holy water and sprayed it over the patient and the bed. A moment longer he meditated and then he said with much solemnity: “My son, have you no declaration to make?” “Yes, sir,” said M. Abbe Coignard, with a firm voice, “I forgive my murderer.” Then the priest gave him the holy wafer: “_Ecce Agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi._” My good master replied with a sigh: