“Leaning from the window, we gaze at the vast sombre stretch of the city below us, pierced with multitudinous points of light. Jeanne presses her hand to her forehead as she leans upon the window-bar, and seems a little sad. And I say to myself as I watch her: All changes even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves: we must die to one life before we can enter into another!
And as if answering my thought, the young girl murmurs to me, «My guardian, I am so happy; and still I feel as if I wanted to cry!»
The Last Page August 21, 1869.
Page eighty-seven…. Only twenty lines more and I shall have finished my book about insects and flowers.”