He dies at the age of thirty-six, but he has completely exhausted the possibilities of joy and grief.

He has adored death, loved as a vampire, kissed inimitable expressions of suffering and terror, and has, himself, been racked by implacable remorse, insatiable fear.

He has nothing more to try, nothing more to learn, here below.
"Let's see," said Durtal, running over his notes.

"I left him at the moment when the expiation begins.

As I had written in one of my preceding chapters, the inhabitants of the region dominated by the chateaux of the Marshal know now who the inconceivable monster is who carries children off and cuts their throats.