"To sleep; for so one keeps alive, at any rate," the patient answered.

"Let no one come in, not even Mlle. Pauline de Wistchnau!" he added to
Jonathan, as the doctor was writing out his prescription.

"Well, M. Horace, is there any hope?" the old servant asked, going as
far as the flight of steps before the door, with the young doctor.

"He may live for some time yet, or he may die to-night. The chances of
life and death are evenly balanced in his case. I can't understand it

at all," said the doctor, with a doubtfulgesture. "His mind ought to
be diverted."

"Diverted! Ah, sir, you don't know him! He killed a man the other day
without a word!--Nothing can divert him!"

For some days Raphael lay plunged in the torpor of this artificial
sleep. Thanks to the material power that opium exerts over the

immaterial part of us, this man with the powerful and active
imagination reduced himself to the level of those sluggish forms of

animal life that lurk in the depths of forests, and take the form of
vegetable refuse, never stirring from their place to catch their easy

prey. He had darkened the very sun in heaven; the daylight never
entered his room. About eight o'clock in the evening he would leave

his bed, with no very clear consciousness of his own existence; he
would satisfy the claims of hunger and return to bed immediately. One

dull blighted hour after another only brought confused pictures and
appearances before him, and lights and shadows against a background of

darkness. He lay buried in deep silence; movement and intelligence
were completely annihilated for him. He woke later than usual one

evening, and found that his dinner was not ready. He rang for
Jonathan.

"You can go," he said. "I have made you rich; you shall be happy in
your old age; but I will not let you muddle away my life any longer.

Miserable wretch! I am hungry--where is my dinner? How is it?--Answer
me!"

A satisfied smile stole over Jonathan's face. He took a candle that
lit up the great dark rooms of the mansion with its flickering light;

brought his master, who had again become an automaton, into a great
gallery, and flung a door suddenly open. Raphael was all at once

dazzled by a flood of light and amazed by an unheard-of scene.
His chandeliers had been filled with wax-lights; the rarest flowers

from his conservatory were carefully arranged about the room; the
table sparkled with silver, gold, crystal, and porcelain; a royal

banquet was spread--the odors of the tempting dishes tickled the
nervous fibres of the palate. There sat his friends; he saw them among

beautiful women in full evening dress, with bare necks and shoulders,
with flowers in their hair; fair women of every type, with sparkling

eyes, attractively and fancifully arrayed. One had adopted an Irish
jacket, which displayed the alluring outlines of her form; one wore

the "basquina" of Andalusia, with its wanton grace; here was a half-
clad Dian the huntress, there the costume of Mlle. de la Valliere,

amorous and coy; and all of them alike were given up to the
intoxication of the moment.

As Raphael's death-pale face showed itself in the doorway, a sudden
outcry broke out, as vehement as the blaze of this improvised banquet.

The voices, perfumes, and lights, the exquisite beauty of the women,
produced their effect upon his senses, and awakened his desires.

Delightful music, from unseen players in the next room, drowned the
excited tumult in a torrent of harmony--the whole strange vision was

complete.
Raphael felt a caressing pressure on is own hand, a woman's white,

youthful arms were stretched out to grasp him, and the hand was
Aquilina's. He knew now that this scene was not a fantastic illusion

like the fleeting pictures of his disordered dreams; he uttered a
dreadful cry, slammed the door, and dealt his heartbroken old servant

a blow in the face.
"Monster!" he cried, "so you have sworn to kill me!" and trembling at

the risks he had just now run, he summoned all his energies, reached
his room, took a powerful sleepingdraught, and went to bed.

"The devil!" cried Jonathan, recovering himself. "And M. Bianchon most
certainly told me to divert his mind."

It was close upon midnight. By that time, owing to one of those
physical caprices that are the marvel and the despair of science,

Raphael, in his slumber, became radiant with beauty. A bright color
glowed on his pale cheeks. There was an almost girlish grace about the

forehead in which his genius was revealed. Life seemed to bloom on the
quiet face that lay there at rest. His sleep was sound; a light, even

breath was drawn in between red lips; he was smiling--he had passed no
doubt through the gate of dreams into a noble life. Was he a

centenarian now? Did his grandchildren come to wish him length of
days? Or, on a rustic bench set in the sun and under the trees, was he

scanning, like the prophet on the mountain heights, a promised land, a
far-off time of blessing.

"Here you are!"
The words, uttered in silver tones, dispelled the shadowy faces of his

dreams. He saw Pauline, in the lamplight, sitting upon the bed;
Pauline grown fairer yet through sorrow and separation. Raphael

remained bewildered by the sight of her face, white as the petals of
some water flower, and the shadow of her long, dark hair about it

seemed to make it whiter still. Her tears had left a gleaming trace
upon her cheeks, and hung there yet, ready to fall at the least

movement. She looked like an angel fallen from the skies, or a spirit
that a breath might waft away, as she sat there all in white, with her

head bowed, scarcely creasing the quilt beneath her weight.
"Ah, I have forgotten everything!" she cried, as Raphael opened his

eyes. "I have no voice left except to tell you, 'I am yours.' There is
nothing in my heart but love. Angel of my life, you have never been so

beautiful before! Your eyes are blazing---- But come, I can guess it
all. You have been in search of health without me; you were afraid of

me----well----"
"Go! go! leave me," Raphael muttered at last. "Why do you not go? If

you stay, I shall die. Do you want to see me die?"
"Die?" she echoed. "Can you die without me? Die? But you are young;

and I love you! Die?" she asked, in a deep, hollow voice. She seized
his hands with a frenzied movement. "Cold!" she wailed. "Is it all an

illusion?"
Raphael drew the little bit of skin from under his pillow; it was as

tiny and as fragile as a periwinkle petal. He showed it to her.
"Pauline!" he said, "fair image of my fair life, let us say good-bye?"

"Good-bye?" she echoed, looking surprised.
"Yes. This is a talisman that grants me all my wishes, and that

represents my span of life. See here, this is all that remains of it.
If you look at me any longer, I shall die----"

The young girl thought that Valentin had grown lightheaded; she took
the talisman and went to fetch the lamp. By its tremulous light which

she shed over Raphael and the talisman, she scanned her lover's face
and the last morsel of the magic skin. As Pauline stood there, in all

the beauty of love and terror, Raphael was no longer able to control
his thoughts; memories of tender scenes, and of passionate and fevered

joys, overwhelmed the soul that had so long lain dormant within him,
and kindled a fire not quite extinct.

"Pauline! Pauline! Come to me----"
A dreadful cry came from the girl's throat, her eyes dilated with

horror, her eyebrows were distorted and drawn apart by an unspeakable
anguish; she read in Raphael's eyes the vehement desire in which she

had once exulted, but as it grew she felt a light movement in her
hand, and the skin contracted. She did not stop to think; she fled

into the next room, and locked the door.
"Pauline! Pauline!" cried the dying man, as he rushed after her; "I

love you, I adore you, I want you, Pauline! I wish to die in your
arms!"

With unnatural strength, the last effort of ebbing life, he broke down
the door, and saw his mistress writhing upon a sofa. Pauline had