At the College of Rodez 



youth. Nevertheless, the tremendous question 

 would recur, brought to mind by this incident or 

 that. 



Passing one day by a slaughter-house, I saw an 

 Ox driven in by the butcher. I have always had 

 an insurmountable horror of blood ; when I was 

 a boy, the sight of an open wound affected me so 

 much that I would fall into a swoon, which on 

 more than one occasion nearly cost me my life. 

 How did I screw up courage to set foot in those 

 shambles? No doubt, the dread problem of death 

 urged me on. At any rate, I entered, close on the 

 heels of the Ox. 



With a stout rope round its horns, wet-muzzled, 

 meek-eyed, the animal moves along as though mak- 

 ing for the crib in its stable. The man walks 

 ahead, holding the rope. We enter the hall of 

 death, amid the sickening stench thrown up by the 

 entrails scattered over the ground and the pools 

 of blood. The Ox becomes aware that this is not 

 his stable; his eyes turn red with terror; he strug- 

 gles; he tries to escape. But an iron ring is there, 

 in the floor, firmly fixed to a stone flag. The man 

 passes the rope through it and hauls. The Ox 

 lowers his head; his muzzle touches the ground. 

 While an assistant keeps him in this position with 

 the rope, the butcher takes a knife with a pointed 

 blade; not at all a formidable knife, hardly larger 

 than the one which I myself carry in my breeches- 

 pocket. For a moment he feels with his fingers 

 at the back of the animal's neck and then drives 

 in the blade at the chosen spot. The great beact 

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