No king was ever nursed as he was. Yes,
Bianchon, to snatch that man from death I tried unheard-of things. I
wanted him to live long enough to show him his work accomplished, to
realize all his hopes, to give expression to the only need for gratitude
that ever filled my heart, to quench a fire that burns in me to this
day.
"Bourgeat, my second father, died in my arms," Desplein went on, after a
pause, visibly moved. "He left me everything he possessed by a will he
had had made by a public scrivener, dating from the year when we had
gone to live in the Cour de Rohan.
"This man's faith was perfect; he loved the Holy Virgin as he might have
loved his wife. He was an ardent Catholic, but never said a word to me
about my want of religion. When he was dying he entreated me to spare no
expense that he might have every possible benefit of clergy. I had a
mass said for him every day. Often, in the night, he would tell me of
his fears as to his future fate; he feared his life had not been saintly
enough. Poor man! he was at work from morning till night. For whom,
then, is Paradise--if there be a Paradise? He received the last
sacrament like the saint that he was, and his death was worthy of his
life.
"I alone followed him to the grave. When I had laid my only benefactor
to rest, I looked about to see how I could pay my debt to him; I found
he had neither family nor friends, neither wife nor child.
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