And, feeling himself again strong and wise amidst the herd of fools who had so stupidly and impudently broken into the mystery of the future, he began to think of the bliss of ignorance, and his thoughts were the painful thoughts of an old, sick man who had gone through endless experience.

It was not given to any living being--man or beast--to know the day and hour of death.
Here had he been ill not long ago and the physicians told him that he must expect the end, that he should make his final arrangements--but he had not believed them and he remained alive.

In his youth he had become entangled in an affair and had resolved to end his life; he had even loaded the revolver, had "written his letters, and had fixed upon 'the hour for suicide--but before the very end he had suddenly changed his mind.

It would always be thus--at the very last moment something would change, an unexpected accident would befall--no one could tell when he would die.
"At one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency!" those kind asses had said to him, and although they had told him of it only that death might be averted, the mere knowledge of its possibility at a certain hour again filled him with horror.

It was probable that some day he should be assassinated, but it would not happen to-morrow--it would not happen to-morrow--and he could sleep undisturbed, as if he were really immortal.
Fools--they did not know what a great law they had dislodged, what an abyss they had opened, when they said in their idiotic kindness: "At one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency!" "No, not at one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency, but no one knows when.