Mercier is dead, and I saw his corpse weep.... I did not think such a
thing possible. The orderly had just washed his face and combed his grey
hair.
I said: "You are not forty yet, my poor Mercier, and your hair is almost
white already."
"It is because my life has been a very hard one, and I have had so many
sorrows. I have worked so hard... so hard! And I have had so little
luck."
There are pitiful little wrinkles all over his face; a thousand
disappointments have left indelible traces there. And yet his eyes are
always smiling; from out his faded features they shine, bright with an
artless candour and radiant with hope.
"You will cure me, and perhaps I shall be luckier in the future."