The Atheist's Mass

y a tear, as he said, 'It is too bad. What a
splendid barrel! You really ought not. Why, that horse is as strong as
an Auvergnat!'

"I never saw a more touching scene. Bourgeat insisted on buying for me
the case of instruments mounted in silver which you have seen in my
room, and which is to me the most precious thing there. Though enchanted
with my first success, never did the least sign, the least word, escape
him which might imply, 'This man owes all to me!' And yet, but for him,
I should have died of want; he had eaten bread rubbed with garlic that I
might have coffee to enable me to sit up at night.

"He fell ill. As you may suppose, I passed my nights by his bedside, and
the first time I pulled him through; but two years after he had a
relapse; in spite of the utmost care, in spite of the greatest exertions
of science, he succumbed. No king was ever nursed as he was. Yes,
Bianchon, to snatch that man from death I tried unheard-of things. I
wanted him to live long enough to show him his work accomplished, to
realize all his hopes, to give expression to the only need for gratitude
that ever filled my heart, to quench a fire that burns in me to this
day.

"Bourgeat, my second father, died in my arms," Desplein went on, after a
pause, visibly moved. "He left me everything he possessed by a will he
had had made by a public scrivener, dating from the year when we had
gone to live in the Cour de Rohan.

"This man's faith was perfect; he loved the Holy Virgin as he might have
loved his wife. He was an ardent Catholic, but never said a word to me
about my want of religion. When he was dying he entreated me to spare no
expense that he might have every possible benefit of clergy. I had a
mass said for him every day. Often, in the night, he would tell me of
his fears as to his future fate; he feared his life had not been saintly
enough. Poor man! he was at work from morning till night. For whom,
then, is Paradise--if there be a Paradise? He received the last
sacrament like the saint t

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Thomas Hardy, OM (June 2, 1840 January 11, 1928) was an English novelist, short story writer, and poet of the naturalist movement, though he saw himself as a poet and wrote novels mainly for financial gain only. The bulk of his work, set mainly in the semi-imaginary county of Wessex, delineates characters struggling against their passions and circumstances. Hardys poetry, first published in his fifties, has come to be as well regarded as his novels, especially after The Movement of the 1950s and 1960s.