was now much troubled by a thickness of speech which
he had some ado to endure with patience. This
and his sores were his greatest cross; he had dark,
inflamed sores at the base of his spine — the doctor
said it was because he lay heavy.
Christophe came in with Loup and Marie, and as
always he was struck by his father's whiteness; Jouse's
hair and beard were as white as snow, and the flush
which had long since died from his face had left
behind it a waxen pallor. No colour anywhere save
in his eyes; his eyes had grown wonderfully young and
clear, and as blue as a patch of sea in a mistral. But
above all the hands that lay on the quilt never failed
to rivet the boy's attention. Those once capable
hands tanned by wind and sun and hard manual
labour to the colour of bronze were now as waxen as
the skin of the face; and delicate they looked, like a
bedridden woman's.
Christophe said: clt goes better with you, my
father?'
Jouse nodded: 'But yes, it goes better with me,
except for that sore on the right of my back — 1 have
christened him Job!' And he smiled a wry smile.
Then: CI wish you would come here and touch my
back; something in your touch seems to ease the pain.'
A long pause ensued, and when Christophe spoke he
was shocked by what he heard himself saying: cThat is
nonsense! There is nothing in my touch to ease pain;
it must surely be your imagination. There is nothing,
I tell you, to ease pain in my touch.'
But Jouse looked at him quietly: 'Imagination
. . . reality ... Is there then so great a difference
between them?' And his eyes held a kind of solemn
reproach.
'Eh bien, I will do as you wish,5 sighed Christophe.
Helped by Anfos he turned Jouse onto his side, then
placed a timid hand over the sore, feeling all the while
34*