his knuckles into his eyes because tears were un-
thinkable for a soldier.
Marie tried to follow: cHe will surely die;5 she wept,
'Belli Santo d'or, we shall lose him/
But Christophe laid his hand on her arm: CI think
he would rather be alone/ he told her.
§2
As time went on Christophe could but wonder at
his father's well-nigh amazing patience. It was like
a bright rift in the clouds of despair that gathered
about Jouse's suffering—a strange outcome, it seemed,
of so bitter an illness. Jouse must frequently lie for
hours like a log because no one was at hand to move
him, the weight of his bulk pressing down on his
sores, but in spite of this he seldom complained, only
his eyes would betray his anguish. Most pitiful he was,
the patient giant; Christophe could often have wept
to see him stretched there so helplessly on the bed;
and yet something told Christophe that all was well,
oh, but very well indeed with his father. He had lost
his former craving for liquor, and moreover he had
grown exceedingly simple. His mind remained clear,
his brain unaffected, but his mind took great pleasure
in simple things; he would like the feel of a spray of
mimosa and would stroke it tenderly with his sound
hand. Indeed he who had never looked twice at
flowers now seemed to discern a new meaning in
them.
'God is cleverer than I am,J he would say; cas for
me, I could never have made mimosa.5
Jouse dreamed vividly these days, uncertain if he
was sleeping or waking, and he liked to discuss these
dreams with his son; Christophe could see that they
gave him pleasure. The dreams were concerned with
bygone things, he seldom if ever dreamed of the
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