“You will save me after all,” he says; “I have had too miserable a life to die yet, Monsieur.”

I press his hand to give him confidence, and I feel that his hard hand is happy in mine.  My fingers have groped in his flesh, his blood has flowed over them, and this creates strong ties between two men.

Calm seems completely restored.  I talk to him of his beautiful native place.  He was a baker in a village of Le Cantal.  I passed through it once as a traveller in peace time.  We recall the scent of the juniper-bushes on the green slopes in summer, and the mineral fountains with wonderful flavours that gush forth among the mountains.

“Oh!” he exclaims, “I shall always see you!”

“You will see me, Mercier?”

He is a very simple fellow; he tries to explain, and merely adds: 

“In my eyes. ...  I shall always see you in my eyes.”

What else does he see?  What other thing is suddenly reflected in his eyes?

“I think ... oh, it is beginning again!”

It is true; the spasm is beginning again.  It is terrible.  In spite of our efforts, it overcomes the victim, and this time we are helpless.

“I feel that I am going to die,” he says.

The smiling eyes are still fixed imploringly upon me.

“But you will save me, you will save me!”

Death has already laid a disfiguring hand on Mercier.

“Stay by me.”

Yes, I will stay by you, and hold your hand.  Is there nothing more I can do for you?

His nostrils quiver.  It is hard to have been wretched for forty years, and to have to give up the humble hope of smelling the pungent scent of the juniper-bushes once more. ...

His lips contract, and then relax gradually, so sadly.  It is hard to have suffered for forty years, and to be unable to quench one’s last thirst with the wonderful waters of our mountain springs. ...

Now the dark sweat gathers again on the hollow brow.  Oh, it is hard to die after forty years of toil, without ever having had leisure to wipe the sweat from a brow that has always been bent over one’s work.

The sacrifice is immense, and we cannot choose our hour; we must make it as soon as we hear the voice that demands it.

The man must lay down his tools and say:  “Here I am.”

Oh, how hard it is to leave this life of unceasing toil and sorrow!

The eyes still smile feebly.  They smile to the last moment.

He speaks no more.  He breathes no more.  The heart throbs wildly, then stops dead like a foundered horse.

Mercier is dead.  The pupils of his eyes are solemnly distended upon a glassy abyss.  All is over.  I have not saved him. ...

Then from those dead eyes great tears ooze slowly and flow upon his cheeks.  I see his features contract as if to weep throughout eternity.

I keep the dead hand still clasped in mine for several long minutes.