And so, when, left alone, he saw gradual oblivion close over the imposing revel of which he had been the hero, when the current of life swept ever farther and farther from him that tiny fraction of humanity which made up his universe, when countenances darkened at sight of him, when doors closed and when he was reproached with having "wasted his substance"--he was not surprised, and without a murmur accepted the inevitable.
For days and days he remained stretched on his straw, quiet, even happy, it seemed, but without anything to eat. He starved, it is said.
Two days before his death, the _curé_ had come to see him.
"Well, Jean Piot, my friend, do you repent of your sins?"
"You remember when I proposed to say masses for you? If you had listened to me, you would not to-day be suffering remorse."
"And why should I suffer remorse, _Monsieur le curé_? I have done no harm to anybody. You see, I quite believe that the next world is beautiful, as you say it is, but I wanted my share of this world. And I had it. Rich people have theirs. It would not have been fair otherwise. Ah, I can say that I was as happy as any rich man, not for so long, that is all. And what does that matter, since it must end sometime anyhow? Do you remember? You drank a glass, and you took both my hands, just as if I had been a rich man, _Monsieur le curé_. We were like two brothers. If you cannot say a mass for me without money, surely you will remember me in your prayers, will you not?"
"I promise to, Jean Piot," said the _curé_, who had grown thoughtful.
St. Bartholemew is a village in the Creuse, whose exact location I abstain from indicating lest I disturb a peaceful community by calling up unpleasant memories. St. Bartholemew is a village like any other. It has its main street, with old sagging houses huddled one against the other; here and there, the discordant note of a new building with wrought-iron gateway and gateposts topped by cast-iron vases. There are streets running at right angles, oozy with sewage, littered with manure, where numerous chickens scratch for their living. There are little gardens ornamented with bright shiny balls, reflecting people and things, and making them look ugly at close range, beautiful in the distance, even as our eyes do.