’Yes, one must really be wanting in pride to resign oneself to turning out merely approximate work and resorting to trickery with life.  I, who bestow every care on my books—­I despise myself, for I feel that, despite all my efforts, they are incomplete and untruthful.’

With pale faces, they slowly went away, side by side, past the children’s white tombs, the novelist then in all the strength of his toil and fame, the painter declining but covered with glory.

‘There, at least, lies one who was logical and brave,’ continued Sandoz; ‘he confessed his powerlessness and killed himself.’

‘That’s true,’ said Bongrand; ’if we didn’t care so much for our skins we should all do as he has done, eh?’

’Well, yes; since we cannot create anything, since we are but feeble copyists, we might as well put an end to ourselves at once.’

Again they found themselves before the burning pile of old rotten coffins, now fully alight, sweating and crackling; but there were still no flames to be seen, the smoke alone had increased—­a thick acrid smoke, which the wind carried along in whirling coils, so that it now covered the whole cemetery as with a cloud of mourning.

‘Dash it!  Eleven o’clock!’ said Bongrand, after pulling out his watch.  ‘I must get home again.’

Sandoz gave an exclamation of surprise: 

‘What, already eleven?’

Over the low-lying graves, over the vast bead-flowered field of death, so formal of aspect and so cold, he cast a long look of despair, his eyes still bedimmed by his tears.  And then he added: 

‘Let’s go to work.’

THE END