What would happen to her if I
never woke up again--alone, friendless and unknowing as she was?
Marguerite had caught hold of one of my hands which lay passive on the
coverlet, and, covering it with kisses, she repeated wildly: "Olivier,
answer me. Oh, my God, he is dead, dead!"
So death was not complete annihilation. I could hear and think. I had
been uselessly alarmed all those years. I had not dropped into utter
vacancy as I had anticipated. I could not picture the disappearance
of my being, the suppression of all that I had been, without the
possibility of renewed existence. I had been wont to shudder whenever in
any book or newspaper I came across a date of a hundred years hence. A
date at which I should no longer be alive, a future which I should never
see, filled me with unspeakable uneasiness. Was I not the whole world,
and would not the universe crumble away when I was no more?
To dream of life had been a cherished vision, but this could not
possibly be death. I should assuredly awake presently. Yes, in a few
moments I would lean over, take Marguerite in my arms and dry her tears.
I would rest a little while longer before going to my office, and then
a new life would begin, brighter than the last.
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