CHAPTER xvi

THE days that followed that strange night of vision
were filled with acute anxiety for Christophe.
He shrank from speaking of what had occurred with
a dread so intense as to be almost morbid, yet some-
thing seemed urging him on to speak: Tell Jan . . .
tell Jan ... tell him what you have seen.' The
words would hammer themselves out in his brain
with a kind of heavy monotony, with a patient and
irresistible persistence,
His work suffered; he grew duller than ever at his
books, for now he scarcely knew what he was reading.
He would fancy that he saw those words on the page
and would afterwards grow confused during the
lesson, so that Monsieur Roland must thump his
desk: * Christophe Benedit, this is intolerable, shameful!
Not a question this morning have you answered
correctly/ And turning to Loup, 'Allons, Loup,
attention! Kindly tell me the principal victories of
Napoleon/ Then le tout petit Loup looking ludi-
crously small and fragile 'beside his large-limbed
brother, would pipe put the victories victoriously,
ticking them off on his brown, skinny fingers. The
class would grin as Christophe sat down as red as a
beetroot with shame and confusion. But this was not
all: his hands lost their assurance, growing doubtful
when handling the hammer and chisel:
'Segnour Dieu, what are you doing, my son?'
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