He had learned how to die at many deathbeds; and when
stretched motionless on his, during six months of agony, his eye
counted on a little clock, which stood at the foot of his bed, the
hours that divided him from eternity. He pressed upon his bosom, with
his crossed hands, a crucifix, emblem of patience, and his look never
quitted that celestial friend, as though he had conversed at the foot
of the cross. When he suffered beyond his powers of endurance he
requested that the crucifix might be approached to his lips, and his
prayers were then mingled with thanksgiving. At last he slept,
supported to the end by his hopes and the memory of the good he had
done. He had given the poor and the sick an accumulated treasure of
good works to carry before him into the presence of the God of the
merciful. He died on a wretched bed in a garret, leaving no
inheritance. The poor bore his body to the grave, and, in their turn,
gave him the burial of charity in the common earth. O blessed soul,
that in memory, I still see smiling on that kind countenance, lighted
with inward joy, can so much virtue have been to thee but a deception?
Hast thou vanished like the reflection of my lamp upon thy portrait,
when my hand withdraws the light that allowed me to contemplate it? No,
no; God is faithful, and cannot have deceived thee, who wouldst not
have deceived a child!
XC.
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