IV

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IV

Then Rose also went to live far away from me. My dear Marie, you will be surprised to hear that, at the age of fifteen, she still was a most loveable animal; that the same superior intelligence, which distinguished her formerly from the rest of her kind, enabled her to bear up against the burden of age. My desire was never to part with her; but when the happiness of one’s friends is concerned, one ought not to consult one’s own pleasure or interest. Rose was to quit the wandering life that she had passed with me, and to enjoy at last, in her old age, the repose for which her master could never hope. Her great age compelled me to have her carried. I felt I must allow her an invalid’s privileges, and a kind nun agreed to take care of her for the remainder of her days, and I know that, in that retreat, she has enjoyed all the advantages that her qualities, her age, and her good name had so well deserved.

Man’s nature is such, that happiness appears to be a thing unattainable; unconsciously and unintentionally friend offends friend, and even lovers inevitably fall out and quarrel at times. And since all legislators, from Lycurgus down to those of today, in their attempts to bestow happiness on mankind have failed miserably, I can at least comfort myself greatly with the thought of having made even one dog happy.