why?' For he could not understand how it came that
his mother who praised the saint for his acts of mercy,
made no effort to ease Mireio's suffering. No one else
did either, as Christophe well knew, but his mother
seemed different —so tender, so gentle, so anxious
to tell them about Saint Francis. . . .
Then: 'Such things cannot happen every day,3 she
repeated; as though that were a good and sufficient
explanation.
Yet Christophe was neither convinced nor consoled;
and seeing her son continue to weep, Marie took him
quietly onto her lap and rocked him as though he were
once more a baby.
§4
After this, for quite a number of weeks, Marie told
only fairy tales to the children. Then one Sunday
when Jan came back with them from church, he
started to beg for the legends of the saints, in particular
of those who had suffered as martyrs. But Marie did
not wish her Loup to have nightmares so she would not
discuss Saint Laurence's gridiron, nor Saint John's
boiling oil, nor Saint Vitus's cauldron, nor even Saint
Denis's strange behaviour.
'Let us speak of more pleasant things,' she remarked,
glancing rather apprehensively at Loup, * Supposing I
tell you about Christophe's Patron?' For although
this good saint was indeed martyrized, that fact does
not enter into his legend.
'Saint Christophe was a ferryman,' she began.
But Loup interrupted: 'Like the man at the port —
the one whose face is all covered with pimples?'
'Yes — only Saint Christophe had a clear, healthy
skin.'
'How can one be certain?5 persisted Loup.
'Because saints never do have pimples,' said Jan
firmly.
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