Seraphita. Honore de Balzac

will you take?” asked the old man, lighting the immensely tall wax-candles that are used in Norway.

      “Nothing, David, I am too weary.”

      Seraphitus unfastened his pelisse lined with sable, threw it over him, and fell asleep. The old servant stood for several minutes gazing with loving eyes at the singular being before him, whose sex it would have been difficult for any one at that moment to determine. Wrapped as he was in a formless garment, which resembled equally a woman’s robe and a man’s mantle, it was impossible not to fancy that the slender feet which hung at the side of the couch were those of a woman, and equally impossible not to note how the forehead and the outlines of the head gave evidence of power brought to its highest pitch.

      “She suffers, and she will not tell me,” thought the old man. “She is dying, like a flower wilted by the burning sun.”

      And the old man wept.