The hand is withered, but the pencil is still in the tray and is used by another.

There are times when the irony of this thought bites deep into the mind, and goads the mortal to revolt.

Had Blondel, as he climbed the hill, possessed the power of Orimanes to blast at will, few of those whom he met, few on whom he turned the gloomy fire of his eyes, would have reached their houses that day or seen another sun.
He was within a hundred paces of his home, when a big man, passing along the Bourg du Four, but on the other side of the way, saw him and came across the road to intercept him.

It was Baudichon, his double chin more pendulent, his massive face more dully wistful than ordinary; for the times had got upon the Councillor's nerves, and day by day he grew more anxious, slept worse of nights, and listened much before he went to bed.
"Messer Blondel," he called out, in a voice more peremptory than was often addressed to the Fourth Syndic's ear.

"Messer Syndic! One moment, if you please!" Blondel stopped and turned to him.