It was on a Saturday,
           at six in the morning,
         that I
            died after
                   a three days' illness.

    My wife
        was searching a trunk
               for some linen,
            and when
             she rose and turned
               she saw me rigid,
         with open eyes
               and silent pulses.

    She ran to me,
           fancying that I had fainted,
         touched my hands and
              bent over me.

    Then she suddenly grew alarmed,
           burst into tears and stammered:

    "My God,
           my God!

    He is dead!"

    I heard everything,
           but the sounds
            seemed to come
                   from a great distance.

    My left eye
           still detected a faint glimmer,
         a whitish light
             in which all objects melted,
         but my right eye
            was quite bereft of sight.

    It was the coma
           of my whole being,
         as if a thunderbolt
            had struck me.

    My will was annihilated;
        not a fiber of flesh
              obeyed my bidding.

    And yet
           amid the impotency
               of my inert limbs
                   my thoughts subsisted,
           sluggish and lazy,
         still perfectly clear.

    My poor Marguerite was crying;
        she had
              dropped on her knees
                   beside the bed,
           repeating in heart-rending tones:

    "He is dead!

    My God,
           he is dead!"

    Was this strange state
           of torpor,
         this immobility of the flesh,
          really death,
           although the functions
               of the intellect
            were not arrested?

    Was my soul only
          lingering for a brief space
         before it soared away forever?

    From my childhood upward
         I had been subject
               to hysterical attacks,
           and twice in early youth
             I had nearly succumbed
                   to nervous fevers.

    By degrees all those
         who surrounded me had
             got accustomed
                  to consider
                       me an invalid and
                      to see me sickly.

    So much
         so that
             I myself
                had forbidden my wife
                      to call in a doctor
         when I
            had taken to my bed
                   on the day
                       of our arrival
                   at the cheap
                     lodginghouse
                     of the Rue Dauphine
                             in Paris.

    A little rest
        would soon
              set me right again;
        it was
              only the fatigue
                   of the journey
              which had
                  caused my intolerable weariness.

    And yet
         I was conscious of
            having felt singularly uneasy.

    We had
          left our province somewhat abruptly;
         we were very poor
            and had barely enough money
                  to support ourselves
             till I
                drew my first month's salary
                       in the office
             where I
                had obtained a situation.

    And now a sudden seizure
        was carrying me off!

    Was it really death?

    I had
          pictured to
               myself a darker night,
           a deeper silence.

    As a little child
         I had already
              felt afraid to die.

    Being weak and compassionately
          petted by everyone,
           I had concluded
             that I
                had not long to live,
         that I
            should soon be buried,
           and the thought
               of the cold earth
              filled me with a dread
             I could not master
          -- a dread
              which haunted
                   me day and night.

    As I
        grew older the same terror
              pursued me.

    Sometimes,
           after long hours
              spent in reasoning with myself,
         I thought
             that I
                had conquered my fear.

    I reflected,
         "After all,
               what does it matter?

    One dies and all
        is over.

    It is the common fate;
     nothing could be
        better or easier."

    I then prided myself on
        being able
              to look death boldly
                   in the face,
            but suddenly a shiver
            froze my blood,
         and my dizzy anguish returned,
            as if a giant hand
            had swung me
                   over a dark abyss.

    It was