§4
The Cure opened the front door himself: Jan and
Christophe followed him into the study. He motioned
them to chairs then sat down at his desk — the shabby
old mahogany desk upon which his pen had so often
lain idle. The orange tree in the little garden had lost
most of its blossoms for now it was fruiting; it had many
green leaves, and between the leaves glimmered
polished green globes that were turning golden. The
garish Madonna still stood in her place not far from
the Cure's threadbare elbow, while above the tubular
iron stove hung the fine wooden crucifix carved by
Anfos.
The Cure said, almost humbly: 'It is good of you
both to come here, my children.3 And his prominent
eyes turned and rested on Jan. CI know only too well
the feelings of parents. Up to the last they must
cling to their sons, and their sons to them at a time
like this; therefore I say it is good of you to spare a
few minutes for your spiritual father who is no longer
quite so young as he was.3 And indeed he did look a
very old man; the white locks on his brow were
receding and sparse, his temples were heavily veined
and hollow.
Christophe stammered: 'But we could not have
gone to the front without asking you to give us your
blessing.5 For he felt the great burden of sorrow
and love that lay like a cross on the Cure's
shoulders.
And as though Jan had felt it also, he broke in:
'To have gone away without saying good-bye? Ah,
mais non, that could never have happened, mon
p&re. Do I not owe you everything? Think of all
you have done for my education/ Then he grew
very red and stared down at his boots: 'My real
father died before I was born ... Eh bien, what I
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