a dog that has just scrambled out of a pond. From a
cork-tree in a neighbouring yard, came the ceaseless
creaking drone of cingalas.
J6use's body was so still that it might have been
carved in the oak of one of his own blocks of timber.
His left hand must perforce remain motionless, but
even his right hand lay without motion; only his eyes
seemed possessed of life as they turned and rested upon
the door with a questioning, anxious expression of
waiting. It would often be thus, he would lie for hours
with his eyes on the door when Christophe was absent;
and if Marie and both the boys left the house the
faithful madman would crouch beside him, clumsy
but solicitous, demented but mild — indeed Jouse
must sometimes smile to observe how diligently he
strove to be gentle, for now he bore Anfos no resent-
ment.
Had Jouse forgotten? They could never be sure
and were careful that nothing should occur to remind
him. The rest of his past he remembered clearly;
Mireio he remembered, and Anatole Kahn who had
come from the north to ruin his business, and his own
despair which had led him to drink, and then his
awakening to consciousness towards dawn on the
fearful night of his seizure. Two things only his
mind appeared to have mislaid — his repugnance to
Anfos and his quarrel with Christophe. But even
those other memories would now often seem like
dreams to Jouse; like dreams sometimes sweet,
sometimes brave, sometimes sad, and sometimes shot
through with a searing anger . . . but dreams. . . .
Perhaps all life was just dreams? Lying there the
paralysed man would wonder.
The front door banged. Ah, bon, they were home
at last. They were coming upstairs: *Christophe . . .
Christophe!*
The name sounded blurred and Jouse frowned; he
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