I live in the land of the dead." Tears were gathering in his eyes, and emotion made his voice falter as he resumed: "There! come and sit down on that bench yonder; it will please me to live the old days afresh with you, just for a moment." In his turn the young priest felt his sobs choking him.

He could only murmur: "Ah! my dear doctor, my old friend, I can truly tell you that I pitied you with my whole heart, my whole soul." Doctor Chassaigne's story was one of disaster, the shipwreck of a life.
He and his daughter Marguerite, a tall and lovable girl of twenty, had gone to Cauterets with Madame Chassaigne, the model wife and mother, whose state of health had made them somewhat anxious.

A fortnight had elapsed and she seemed much better, and was already planning several pleasure trips, when one morning she was found dead in her bed.

Her husband and daughter were overwhelmed, stupefied by this sudden blow, this cruel treachery of death.

The doctor, who belonged to Bartres, had a family vault in the Lourdes cemetery, a vault constructed at his own expense, and in which his father and mother already rested.