“Once only he was on the point of betraying himself, in spite of himself.  He ardently loved a man, as Chloe must have loved Daphnis.  He could not master himself, or calm his feverish passion, and went towards the abyss as if seized by mental giddiness.  He could imagine nothing handsomer, more desirable, or more charming than that chance friend.  He had sudden transports, fits of surprise, tenderness, curiosity, jealousy, the ardent longings of an old maid who is afraid of dying a virgin, who is waiting for love as for her deliverance, who attaches herself and devotes herself to a lover with her whole being, and who grows emaciated and dries up, and remains misunderstood and despised.

“And as they have both disappeared now, the lover dead from a sword thrust in the middle of the chest, at Milan, on account of some ballet girl, and as he certainly died without knowing that he had inspired such a passion, I may tell you his name.

“He was Count Sebinico, who used to deal at faro with such delicate, white hands, and who wore rings on nearly every finger, who had such a musical voice, and who, with his wavy hair, and his delicate profile, looked like a handsome, Florentine Condottiere.

“It must be very terrible to be thus ashamed of oneself, to have that longing for kisses which console the most wretched in their misery, which satisfy hunger and thirst, and assuage pain; that illusion of delicious, intoxicating kisses, the delight and the balm of which such a person can never know; the horror of that dishonor of being pointed at, made fun of, driven away like unclean creatures that prostitute their sex, and make love vile by unmentionable rites; oh! the constant bitterness of seeing that the person we love makes fun of us, ill-uses us, and does not show us even the slightest friendship!”

“Poor devil!” Jean d’Orthyse said, in a sad and moved voice.  “In his place, I should have blown my brains out.”

“Everybody says that, my dear fellow, but how few there are who venture to forestall that intruder, who always come too quickly.”

“Lantosque had splendid health, and declared that he had never put a penny into a doctor’s pocket, and if he had allowed himself to have been looked after when he was confined to his bed two months before, by an attack of influenza, we should still be hearing him propose a game of poker before dinner, in his shrill voice.  His death, however, was as tragic and mysterious as all those tales from beyond the grave are, on which the Invisible rests.”

“Although he had a cough, which threatened to tear his chest to pieces, and although he was haunted by the fear of death, of that great depth of darkness in which we lose ourselves in the abyss of Annihilation and Oblivion, he obstinately refused to have his chest sounded, and repulsed Doctor Pertuzes almost furiously, who thought he had gone out of his mind.”