The Master Of The House

The

MASTER of the HOUSE

Other books by Radclyffe Hall

THE UNLIT LAMP
ADAM’s BREED
THE WELL OF LONELINESS

The

MASTER of the HOUSE

by

RADCLYFFE HALL

^ . for ye know not when the master

of the house cometh, at even, or at
midnight, or at the cockcrowing, or in
the morning. . . /

Ix>iidon - Jonathan Cape
and New York

Toronto

FIRST PUBLISHED 193 a
SECOND UVtPRESSION, MARCH, 193 ^

JONATHAN CAPE LTD. 30 BEDFORD SQUARE LONDON
AND 91 'WELLINGTON STREET WEST, TORONTO
JONATHAN CAPE & ROBERT BALLOU INC.

139 EAST 46TH STREET NEW YORK

PRINTED m GfREAT BRITAIN IN THE CITY OF OXFORD
AT THE ALDEN PRESS
PAPER BY JOHN DICICINSON & CO., LTD.
BOUND BY A. 'W- BAIN & CO., LTD.

All the persons represented in this book are purely
imaginary; moreover, while actual places and events
are mentioned, certain modifications have, in some
cases, been intentionally introduced wdth a view to
preserving its fictional character.

AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

For the satisfaction of those readers who may wish
for guidance as to the more generally accepted pro¬
nunciation of some of the names and sentences in the
Provencal language that occur throughout this book,
a brief pronouncing glossary is appended.

Some readers may even be sufficiently interested
to care to know that the langu^e in question is no
humble dialect, but is the ancient Langue d’Oc of
the troubadours, the language spoken in the twelfth
and thirteenth centuries not only throughout France
firom Bordeaux to the Alps and from Auvergne to the
Mediterranean, but also in England at the court of
King Richard the Lion Heart, while tradition avers
that Dante hesitated long between the beauties of
Provencal and of Tuscan before deciding to express
himself in the latter language.

Had he decided otherwise it is certain that the
Provencal tongue would have been spared those
centuries of eclipse during which, owing to its gradu¬
ally enforced subjection, in all official concerns, to
the French idiom, it found its only home in the hearts
and on the lips of the peasants, firom which neither
time nor authority ever contrived to evict it.

It was there that its long-despised beauties at length
attracted the attention, in the middle of the nineteenth
century, of Frederic Mistral and the other patriot
poets of the F^brige, and thus to poet and peasant
alike is due the fact that to-day the youth of Provence

11

can study its native language, with all its variants,
survivals and still debatable alternatives, in more
than twenty-five colleges and schools of the South of
France.

It can also be studied in the markets, at the street
comers, in the village shops, in the lowly homes and
in the vineyards of that pleasant land.

la

PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY

All the vowels are pronoiinced approximately as in French.

Ai! las. A-i-lasse

Anas vous en au tron de Dieune.Anasse vous enne a-ou

tronne de Dieoune

Anfos . Anne-fosse

Aurano . A-ourano

Baumo de la Masco Taven. .Ba-ou-mo de la Masco Tavenne

Beu Dieu.Be-ou Die-ou

Bono Maire de Dieu.Bono Ma-i-re de Die-ou

Bono nue .Bono noue

Cafoumo de la Chaucho Viejo .. Cafoumo de la Tcha-oucho

Vieyo

Eusebe . E-ou-se-be

Enfantounet . Enne-fanne-tounette

Goundran.Gk)unne-dranne

Gourgareu Infemau.Gourga-reou Inne-fema-ou

Home bosa.Home bosa

Jan . Dzanne

Jouse . Dzo-ou-ze

Lou Corredou de I’Esperit Fantasti.Lou Corredou de

rEsperitte Fanne-tasti

Lou vin es fa per beure-Lou vinne ez fa per b6-ou-re

Oulo di Set Cat.Oulo di Sette Catte

Pas de TAgneu Negre.Passe de FAgne-ou Negre

Paure pichounet.Pa-ou-re pichoimette

Pecaire . Pe-ca-ire

Ravous . Ravousse

Recatadou di Rato-Penado .. Re-ca-ta-dou di Rato-Peaado

Roustan . Roustanne

Santo Ano d’At.Sanne-to Ano d’Atte

Santouno . Sanne-touno

Samipabieunc ... Samipabieoimc

Tafbrt. Taforte

Zou .. Zo-ou

13

Chapter i

I N a quiet curve of the coast of Provence, on a stretch
of that coast which before the war was seldom if ever
visited by strangers, lies the small seaport town of
Saint-Loup-sur-mer, cleansed by strong winds and
purified by sunshine. Its Patron — if one may credit
report — was a warrior-bishop of no mean attain¬
ments, since of him it is told that he checked the
advance of Attila, Mighty Scourge of the Lord, though
by what precise method remains somewhat uncertain.
But his memory is mellowed by gentler legends even
as the years have mellowed his statues, so that of him
it is also told that he felt great concern for the sorrows
of women, and a great tenderness towards newborn
things, having once restored its life to a fledgling.
And since this bird was a nightingale it would come
with the darkness to sing in his garden: ‘Praise God in
His Golden Saints,’ it would sing, as everyone knew
very well at the time — that is to say, in the year 400,
when Saint Loup had not yet been privileged to hear
the harps and the angelic songs of heaven.

His town has a harbour with numerous vessels and
many simple activities; a fine view from such windows
as look over the quay and thus out beyond to a stretch
of blue water, and a wall of dark peaks from such as
look sideways or backward towards the long range of
the Maures, Saint Loup being partly encircled by
mountains. There is also the church with its open
B 17

belfry in which one may see the chime of bells swir
ing; the old fish-market renowned for fine langoust'
and three cafes frequented by fishermen, sailors, ai
sometimes by artists with their wives and their mode
The streets, which are narrow and tortuous, are but
adapted for the passage of motors; moreover
summer their heat is relentless, while in winter th
are swept and re-swept by the mistral. Yet innum<
able fruit trees surround the town, and these in t
midst of plentiful vineyards.

On a day of insistent fertility towards the end oi
perfect April, when the vines were beginning
extend their pink shoots, and the small peach trees
grow restless with sap, and the bountiful soil that w
make men lazy was stirred by a constant thrusti
and growing, and the very earthworms under t
SOU must curl and uncurl for the joy of living —
such a day, Mir^io, the gaunt yellow bitch, broug
forth her large litter of lusty puppies in the sawdi
and shavings of the carpenter’s shop belonging
Jousfe Benoit — in great anguish and joy she broug
forth her puppies. While above, in a bedroom unc
the eaves, Marie Benedit cried out again and aga:
so that Jous^, her husband, must cover his ears, i
he could not endure those sounds of her travt
Marie Benedit cried out, yet not solely in pain, j
hers was the purposeful suffering of women; and t]
she well knew, so that while she protested her bro''
peasant body strove bravely in labour and her cr
and her wails held a note of triumph which partook
the age-old cry of creation.

Towards dusk Marie Benedit gave birth to a sc
and after the midwife had cleansed his limbs a
swathed him in flannel she took him to his moth
while Jouse stood gaping at this sacrament of 1
which he had raised up through the seed of his lo:
— too confounded for speech he must just stand gapii

i8

And below in the darkening carpenter’s shop Mir^;iOj
the bitch, gave her teats to her young, rolling sideways
that they might come at her belly.

§2

Christophe Marie Benedit began squealing loudly
at the very onset of his baptismal service, so that
Monsieur le Cure had some ado to anoint his breast
with the Holy Chrism, and even more to place salt
on his tongue in accordance with the ritual of Mother
Church and the time-honoured Christian custom.
But when drops of cold water were splashed on his
head then he lost every vestige of self-control and beat
with his heels on his godmother’s stomach. In addi¬
tion to being his sponsor before God, she was also his
aunt, though he did not know it.

Madame Roustan frowned and gripped him more
firmly as she watched this momentous struggle with
Satan. ‘It is clear that the devil is excessively angry,’
she whispered to Goundran the child’s godfather, ‘he
is blistered, no doubt, by the Holy Oil and scourged by
our good priest’s exorcisms!’

But Goundran was young and a fisherman; he had
known far worse struggles than this in foul weather, so
that while Madame Roustan continued to frown at
their godson, he smiled at the turbulent infant —
when he smiled his large teeth gleamed startlingly
white in a face that was tanned to the colour of copper.

Arm in arm near the font stood the earthly parents:
Jouse, a mighty and comely man in spite of the fact
that he was ageing. His head was covered with thick,
small curls, and his plentiful beard was also curly.
The hair of his head and his beard was red gold, but
touched here and there with streaks of grey, for at this
time Jous^ was nearing fifty. Marie, a woman of
twenty-nine, was as brown as the soil and as patiently

19

faithful. Her eyes were the eyes of the beasts of the
field who eat, sleep, and beget their kind without
question. But unlike these, Marie would seldom rest;
for ever finding some new task to do she must busy
herself with perpetual housework. And wiry she was
and uncommonly strong when it came to the moving
of chests and cupboards, so that Jousfe would laugh
and would say to tease her: ‘You will surely be able to
carry my coffin!’ Then Marie would sign herself
with the cross — it was always foolhardy to jest about
Death, one could never be certain that jests would not
bring him.

For five years these two had been man and wife,
but Marie had often felt heavy in spirit, oppressed by
the thought of her empty womb. For five years she
had earnestly prayed to Saint Loup who was known to
be sympathetic to women. And at last that kind
Patron had answered her prayers, giving her not only
a child but a son wherewith to rejoice the heart of her
husband. So now here they stood arm in arm near
the font, both deeply moved by their simple faith
in the goodness of God and his Golden Saints; and
deeply moved to behold their own flesh and blood in
so small yet so perfect a being. Indeed Marie’s patient
brown eyes overflowed, and Jouse must lend her his
big bandana, himself scarcely able to keep from
weeping.

The ancient ritual drew to its close, and Christophe
was anointed as a king before God, as a priest, and
finally as a prophet. As a king with dominion over
his passions, as a priest who must offer himself to the
Lord as a living sacrifice of sweet odour, as a prophet
who must proclaim through his life the rewards that
await the righteous in heaven. Then the Cur6 handed
a lighted candle to Goundran who held it with scrupu¬
lous care — for Christophe’s pink fists were as yet too
weak to grasp this symbolic light of his faith, so that
20

Goundran the fisher must grasp it for him. And
after the priest had given them his blessing Madame
Roustan wrapped a new, white woolly shawl about
Christophe’s now new and sinless body; and Goundran
solemnly blew out his candle; and J6us6 solemnly
blew his nose on the damp handkerchief handed back
by Marie. The townsfolk who had come to see the
event turned and left the old church with much
whispering and smiling; while the little party chiefly
concerned prepared to go back to the Benedit’s house
with their friends, there to celebrate the occasion.

§3

The small parlour was crowded to overflowing,
for not everyone opened so much good wine solely in
honour of an infant Christian; indeed many baptisms
went unnoticed. But as Jouse had said; it was not
every man who could sire so fine and healthy a son
when he himself was approaching fifty; and so there
was plenty to eat and drink, the wine gleaming as
golden as Joust’s beard and as red as his cheeks, in its
generous glasses.

Madame Roustan — as a mother-in-God who had
witnessed so robust and valiant a fight with the devil —
Madame Roustan drank a tumbler of Camp Romain
rouge which flushed her plump face and set her
perspiring; after which she must glance from the
comer of an eye at Goundran, her fellow parent-in-
God, for she was a widow but not past mating.
Despite her encroaching flesh she looked young,
and like J6us6 her brother, had a clear, fair com¬
plexion.

Germaine Roustan had been deprived of her man, a
linen-draper, by one of those strokes that occasionally
come in the wake of great heat —he had died in
rather less than an hour, having been smitten down

21

while measuring ribbon. And now here she was with
a posthumous son of four months old, but alas, with
no husband; with a drapei^ shop, but alas, with no
male to assist her in keeping the business together;
with a healthful and willing body enough, but alas,
with small prospect of future breeding. And so, after
that tumbler of Camp Romain rouge, it was natural
perhaps that her thoughts should be turned away from
the dead and toward the living. But Goundran was
a lover and lord of the sea, and appeared to be little
attracted by women.

Jouse drank, laughing many times as he did so. He
laughed in pure joy at his fine situation; and his
mighty fist came down on the table while his mighty
voice pressed hospitality, urging his guests to fill up
their glasses:

‘Hoi, tafort! Have courage my friends!’ he roared
in the Provencal tongue which they dearly loved
speaking, ‘Hoi, tafort! Lou vin es fa per beure!’
And undoubtedly this wine seemed made to be drunk,
for, cheap though it was in that land of plenty, it
possessed no mean flavour to tickle the palate.

Then Goundran lifted his glass to the child who lay
quietly asleep on the knees of his mother: ‘May you
live many years and prosper, little godson; and may
you become a good fisherman, for the sea is the finest
thing in creation.’

Jouse grinned: ‘May he learn to work in my shop;
may he learn to make comfortable chairs and strong
tables.’

‘May he prosper,’ they all murmured fervently,
while Christophe, worn out, still continued to sleep,
completely indifferent, it seemed, to his future.

But now Eusebe, the sandal-maker, who plied his
trade just across the street in a house that at one time
had been a convent, Eusebe, not content with so
seemly a toast, must dip a gnarled finger into his

22

wine and dab a red splotch on the infant’s forehead:

‘May he love the good fruits of the earth,’ he ex¬
claimed, ‘and the juice that comes from the fruits of
the earth; these are surely the things that all men
should love, and not the netting of cold little fishes
and the hammering of wood to make chairs and tables.’

‘Sant Jan I’ami de Dieu,’ muttered Madame
Roustan, ‘what is this he has done? It cannot be
Christian. . . .’

Marie said quietly: ‘You are drunk, Eusebe,’ and
she wiped the red mark away with her hand, but her
peaceful brown face had turned very pale, for she
was a peasant and superstitious.

It was true that Eusebe was exceedingly drunk on
this, as on many a previous occasion; that his heathen¬
ish ways and intemperate habits had caused a great
scandal throughout the parish. It was also true that
he cared not a jot, so callous was he towards God and
his neighbour. He looked old and yet nobody quite
knew his age, for the south which brings early
maturity will occasionally bring an early decline,
and thus it is unwise to judge by appearance. Eusfebe’s
tanned face was' a network of lines, and the eyes in
that face did not match any more, which gave him a
disconcerting expression — he was blind of an eye and
that eye was blue-white, while its fellow had remamed
of a most fiery blackness. A small man, he was often
still further dwarfed by wearing an unusually long
leather apron. His habits were not only eccentric
but uncleanly; in the summer he might sometimes
go down to bathe, for the rest he appeared to wash
very little. Just now his hands were heavily stained
by hides, boot polish and cobbler’s wax — he had not
even troubled to cleanse his hands; it was all of a
piece with his general disorder. But then neither
had he troubled to cleanse his feet, which showed
scarred and neglected in his dusty sandals.

23

T in's making of sandals had been taught him, it was
said, by an artist who had stayed for a while in the
town, but whom no one had ever again seen or heard
of And now many of the peasants as well as the towns¬
folk had discarded the wearing of boots and shoes in
favour of what Madame Roustan declared to be
clearly a pagan snare of the devil. For Eusebe’s
sandals were both durable and cheap, and were made
from a pliant and excellent leather, so that they clung
to the instep and heel without galling or causing the
slightest restriction. He could make two patterns, the
Pompeian and the Spartan, the former requiring the
minutest adjustment, since no buckles or fastenings
must mar the line which was of an extreme simplicity,
yet tricky enough when it came to the fitting. These
sandals paid less well than boots and shoes, but
Eusebe never seemed short of money.

His dead wife had owned vineyards beyond the
town, and these he very knowingly tended. He
possessed an uncanny intuition about vines so that
many a farmer would come to consult him. It was
said that Eusebe could squeeze gold from the soil,
and certain it was that his excellent grapes always
clustered more richly than other people’s. But did he
give so much as a sou to the Cure? He did not,
the unregenerate old sinner. And did he attend
Holy Mass on Simdays? He did not; on Sundays he
walked in his vineyards — small wonder that such
behaviour caused scandal. And again, he lived by
himself above his shop and would let no one in to
attend to the housework. His rooms went unswept
and his bed unmade except when a species of frenzy
would seize him; then, grasping a broom he would
sweep and sweep as though the devil were hard at his
heels, after which he would drag off his old feather
bed and hang it to air from an upper window. This
decayed feather bed was a local disgrace, while as for
24

the dirt . . . people all but choked with the thick
clouds of dust if they chanced to be passing. A grand¬
daughter, his sole surviving relation, was being
brought up by the sisters at Arles — a town that he
proudly claimed as his birthplace.. She was three years
old but she never came home, which the Cure
considered was all to her advantage.

Of course Bacchus alone had attracted Eusebe to
the christening feast on this hot afternoon; still, he
need not have become so exceedingly drunk, nor
splashed quite so much wine on the clean table linen:
‘Boudieu,’ he was gurgling, now deep in his cups,
‘Boudieu, what a balm to the stomach is good wine;
surely a most proper balm to the stomach . . .’ And
he tipped his chair backward, upsetting his glass;
indeed Goundran’s quick hand alone saved him from
falling.

Christophe woke up and started to cry. Unfastening
her bodice, Marie gave him her breast which he
clutched at blindly, beginning to suck, and making
small, animal sounds in the process.

The heat of the room grew intolerable, for the sun
took quite a long time about setting, and the air was
heavy with the fiimes of wine, with the fumes of tobacco
and sweating bodies. The sweat trickled down Joust’s
beaming face and clung like dew to the hair on his
chest which showed wiry and red where his shirt fell
open. Tongues were loosened; now everyone talked
at once. The men had begun to discard their coats,
sighing and spitting with relief in the process. Jouse,
whose clothes felt increasingly tight, unfastened the
top button of his linen trousers. They had more than
done justice to the excellent fare, eating their fill of
the aioli, that mysterious and well-nigh sacred dish
compounded of garlic pods, yolk of egg, olive oil,
pepper and vinegar; of potatoes boiled (sfins and all)
in salt water together with artichokes, carrots,

25

french beans, cauliflower, cod fish, coal fish and snails,
to say nothing of other delectable things very dearly
beloved of the Provencal stomach. They had passed
from the honest Camp Remain rouge to a soft boiled
wine, insidious and heady; this they drank with the
little festal cakes which were so honey-sweet that they
made the teeth ache. And now everyone talked about
nothing at all, but loudly, so that Marie glanced
down at her child who, himself replete, had once more
dropped asleep. Swaying gently she rocked him as
he lay in her arms, grown fearM lest the boisterous
laughter should wake him. But Ghristophe slept
on with one very small foot dangling limply in a pink
woollen sock widi a tassel. A faint dribble of milk that
remained on his chin testified to his eager and greedy
sucking.

Jouse thought: T have waited long for this day
when I should possess a son of my own. Hoi, it is
splendid to be a father.’

And Marie was thinking: ‘So helpless he is, and so
treasured; it is sweet to become a mother.’

From the kitchen came a long-drawn, disconsolate
sound, as of something inarticulate, weeping: ‘Ai!
las . . .’ murmured Marie, ‘MirHo complains; only
yesterday have we drowned her eight puppies.’

A neighbour started to sing an old song:

‘Chatouno, chatouno, I will be as the Mistral;

And who may hope to resist his might?

Not you, not you, not you, chatoimo!’

Jouse wagged his large curly head to the rhythm.

Presently Govmdran got up to go: ‘I have promisee
to meet a man at the port about some new tackle — ]
am late already.’

‘And I must return to my little Jan who by now wil
be hungry,’ smiled Madame Roustan; and her smili

26

was less for the little Jan than for him whom she hoped
to make his step-father. ‘Gome,’ she coaxed, ‘we will
keep each other company since both of us are bound
for the port; and when you have finished discussing
your affairs you shall come in and give me a few words
of advice as to how I must deal with my dishonest
landlord. He refuses to make good those broken
gutters. Houi, a woman without her own man is
surely the prey of all other men; yes, yes, so it is . . .
but you I will trust, you shall tell me how I must deal
with my landlord.’

Goundran sighed largely and rufiled his hair, as he
turned to follow her out of the parlour.

Then one after another the guests departed, until
finally only Eus^be remained, half asleep in front of
an empty bottle.

Jous^; shook him: ‘Get up! Rouse yourself you old
sot, and cease from slobbering over your shirt. In
another moment you will sink to the floor, and then it
is I who must carry you home — gramaci, and that in
God’s good daylight! Do you hear me? I insist that
you rouse yourself.’ And he tugged at Eusebe’s ear
none too gently.

‘Zou . . .’ muttered Eusebe. And then: ‘Bono-nue
. . . but first I must finish this wine of God.’

‘Not at all; you wfll’go at once,’ Jousfe told him as
he hauled the toper on to his feet, ‘you will go at once.
Allons, I will support you.’ And slipping^ an arm
round Eusebe’s waist, he managed to drag him out of
the house and across the street to his own little shop
where he leff him squatting among his sandals.

Presently Jouse returned to the parlour, and he
stood gazing down at his wife and child: ‘Nosto-Damo-
d’Amour!’ he exclaimed blissfully, ‘Did ever a man
know such joy as mine? Did ever a man have so fine
a son, or so gentle a wife, or so prosperous a business,
or so many good fiiends? God has surely been kind.’

27

Looking up with a smile Marie met his rough kiss;
then they kissed yet again in complete contentment.

But beyond in the kitchen, Mir^io, the bitch, paced
miserably, always seeking her puppies. And her teats
hung heavy and painful with milk so that they dragged
at the skin of her sides, revealing her massive ribs in
their gauntness. And she gave forth a long-drawn,
disconsolate sound as of something inarticulate,
weeping.

28

Chapter ii

J 6usl;’s workshop was a long, low vault of a place
dependent for light upon its arched entrance. A
small door at the back led into the house, but the
entrance gave direct onto the street, and here Jouse
would work half in and half out whenever his job
permitted of this, for he dearly loved the fresh air and
the sunshine. Spitting upon the rough palms of his
hands he would pause to exchange the time of day or
some crude but harmless joke with a neighbour, and
as likely as not, from across the street, Eusebe would
start to make jokes of his own which, it must be
admitted, were seldom quite harmless.

Jouse had an apprentice, one Anfos by name, a
youth of seventeen who was simple-minded. He was
tall and robust and his lips and cheeks were already
well covered with straggling black hmr, for Anfos
was too childish to handle a razor. His brown eyes
were like those of MirHo, the bitch, apologetic and
slightly bewildered. In body a man for more than
three years, his mind still dwelt in the pastures of
childhood, but at times this mind of lus realized
vaguely that all was not well any more with those
pastures, that something wider might stretch just
beyond, and then his brown eyes would look slightly
bewildered.

Anfos was a distant cousin of Marie’s whom Jouse
had taken on out of pity a few weeks after Christophe’s

29

birtli; and this he had done to please his wife, feeling
that he could refuse her nothing, Marie had begged
him to go into the mountains and bring home the poor
orphan of whom the priest wrote with so much com¬
passionate affection.

•He is not really mad,’ the good priest had written,
‘he is rather one of those who have never strayed from
the path of childish innocence; and what did our
dear Lord Jesus say? “Except ye become as little
children.” Therefore now that both his parents are
dead I must write to you, dear Madame Benedit, for
you it was whom his mother spoke of as perhaps being
willing to befriend her son, and this she ^d, Madame,
when she lay dying. . . .’

So Marie had sent Jouse off to the mountains — a
long, tedious journey right up into the Maures, on a
spur of which rested the little village where Anfos
had lived in great poverty all the days of his short and
harmless existence. And since Jduse’s last apprentice
had but lately left him to find more lucrative employ¬
ment at Arles, Marie had begged him to train this
youth whom the priest had assured her was not really
mad but rather one of those little ones who were
always welcome in the Kingdom of Heaven, Jousd
had shaken his curly head and had nibbled the tip
of his beard in misgiving.

‘And what if he saw off his finger or his thumb? Can
I let a poor half-wit play with sharp tools? Woxild it
not be better to inquire of our Curd where we could
put the boy to be cared for?’

But Marie had set her mild lips quite firmly: ‘That
no. His mother was my cousin and my friend, and
although I had not seen her for years, I caimot forget
that we were ^Is together. Moreover I am sure that
Saint Loup desires us to make a home for this unhappy
creature.’

Then Jouse had known that words would be vain,

30

for gentle though Marie undoubtedly was, she could
be as firm as the peak of La Sauvette when she felt
that she had good Saint Loup behind her.

‘Aco s’aco,’ Jouse had sighed resignedly, and had set
out in no very sanguine humour, for what man who
has just bred a fine httle son would wish to adopt a
large, hulking half-wit? Then again there was none
too much room in the house, so that Jouse would
have to give up the attic in which he had hoarded
certain odds and ends of carving by which he set
immense store, since most of them had come out of
ancient buildings. But when he had seen the afflicted
Anfos and had realized his great desolation as he
wandered about the empty hovel, Jouse had taken
the youth by the hand.

‘Will you not come home to us now?’ he had asked
him.

Anfos had said nothing, but when Jouse had turned
to the door he had followed like a dog at his heels.
Thus in silence they had journeyed for the best part of
a day, and still in silence they had reached Saint
Loup at the Vesper hour on a summer evening.

§2

As though virtue were being its own reward, Jouse
soon found to his great amazement that he had
obtained an excellent apprentice, for this Anfos weis
remarkably deft with his hands, and strangely enough
with his mind as well when it came to the technical
details of his trade, all of which must be taught to
him by Jouse. Joust’s work had become a kind of
compound of carpentry, joinery and cabinet-making;
indeed whenever wood had to be cut or fashioned
for no matter what local purpose, there was Jouse
ready to cut or to fashion. A most handy man, he
could build you a shed or a house for that matter,

31

and then he could make nearly all those things you
required for your house; chairs and tables that you
might bequeath to your children, strong cupboards
and chests, and fine massive beds; beds worthy to
share the secrets of mating and the strange, un¬
fathomable mystery of birth, aye, and the infinite
mystery of death, for a steadfast and trusted and
honourable bed can be as a friend when it comes to
dying.

Jouse had once been as far north as Lisieux, and
there he had seen the old timbered houses decaying
in their narrow forgotten byways. And something
had smitten him as he gazed: ‘It was as though a
hand were squeezing my bowels!’ That was how he
had afterwards described it to Marie. For the past
which is always waiting to pounce and drag us down
into the deep reservoir that is timeless, the bottomless
well of existence, the past had laid hold on this man’s
slow mind, so that he, who was unimamnative in all
else, had been fired by the beauty of his craft as set
forth in the toil of those long-dead craftsmen. This
had happened a good many years ago, since when
Jousfe had regretfully been forced to admit that a
man must try to conform to his age, and moreover
that the timbered dwellings of the north were unsuit¬
able to the southern climate. All the same this
experience had influenced his work, so that he
laboured with meticulous care and inclined to an
honest solidity in the things that he made, as though
indeed he were fashioning them for a future gener¬
ation.

The collection of odds and ends of old carving
which had had to give place to Anfos in the attic,
was now stored away in a comer of the workshop, and
quite often J6us6 would show it to the youth, and
would try to expound why the chaste designs seemed
to him to attain to all dignity and beauty.

32

‘Look,’ he would say, ‘the quiet, lovely curve . .
and then he would stop, at a loss for words, stroking
the undulating surface of the oak as though the old
wood could draw comfort from his fing ers,

Anfos would murmur: ‘Beu Dieu;’ very softly and
perhaps a great many times, for he often evoked a
beautiful God when his heart and his struggling child¬
ish mind were stirred hy pleasure or admiration. So
while Jous^ fondled the venerable oak, Anfos would
murmur: ‘Beu Dieu.’

J6us6 had much to teach his apprentice, and he
found that he took a real pleasure in this teaching.
The young man who had left him to go to Arles had
been a very ungracious fellow, full of sullen and
envious discontents, so that J6use turned with relief
to Anfos who listened like a good and intelligent child,
despite the fact that they called him half-witted. And
although he could not be trusted with a razor, perhaps
because this concerned him alone, he could always be
trusted with the tools of his craft which concerned the
great, sweet-smelling blocks of timber.

Many implements are used in the working of wood,
and the ways of all these must be studied with care,
for some are uncertain in their dispositions. Thus
Anfos must study the holding tools, the stalwart oak
bench with its heavy vices, the holdfasts, the endless
family of cramps, and last but not least, the versatile
pincers. The paring and shaving tools he must
leam, and the angle at which it is best to work a chisel,
the balance of forces in using the knife, the capacities
of planes, gouges and the rest — all deadly weapons
unless wielded with skill, with the calm and purpose¬
ful skill of the creator. Yes, and then he must leam
how to purchase a saw; how to test it by laying hold
of the handle which should fit the hand as neatly as
a glove, and moreover be fashioned of well-seasoned
wood lest it shrink and loosen the blade by so doing.

33

He must learn that a thick blade is often a weak blade,
that thin steel is the best when it comes to sawing:
that the truest blades have a clear, bell-like ring wher
craftily struck with the ball of the finger. And ther
he must learn how to press his knee on the plank and
how to begin the cut with the sharp, eager teeth sc
near his thumb that just for a moment they made hiir
feel frightened. And finally, having learnt all these
things and others too numerous to be recorded, he
must learn from Jouse the romance of the adze that
had shaped the stout beams of the Middle Ages. The
romance of the hammer Jdusfe also taught him, telling
of how that most ancient of tools had used to be
fashioned by the water from stone, long ago, before
history was first recorded.

This knowledge the good Jouse had gleaned through
a book soon after that memorable visit to Lisieux; and
this battered old book which he had picked up at a
rag-and-bone shop not far from the quay, was the onl’j
volume he had opened in years — always, of course,
excepting his Missal — for reading had never com<
easily to J6us6. But now it was pleasant to show offhif
learning to his new apprentice who would listen foi
hours, and whose'brown, dog-like eyes would folio v
him about with gratitude mingled with deep respect
Indeed Jouse had taken to saying to his wife; T begir
to doubt whether your cousin is half-witted.’

So the summer days passed happily enough whih
Christophe grew strong at his mother’s breast, and
Anfos grew wise despite his weak mind, and Joust
grew more and more contented and in consequenct
^ways a trifle stouter. That summer too, Mir^ic
seemed well content, for she had attached herself tc
the baby, finding, no doubt, that the difference wa;
slight between this small, hairless human thing and
one of her own robust hairy puppies.

34

§3

Marie became fond of her husband’s apprentice,
not only for his mother’s sake but for his own. There
was something so solemn and so gentle about
and his innocent brown eyes were so queerly appealing,
gazing at her out of his bearded face, that Marie
would trust him to play with her son and would let
him take Christophe into the workshop shoidd she
herself chance to be extra busy.

Christophe was a healthy and commonplace baby,
subject to his good days but also to his bad, like
thousands of other babies. On his good days he smiled
and made friends with the world, digested his food
and gave everyone pleasure. On his bad days he
howled incessantly and occasionally made himself
sick in the process, so that Jous^ must leave his work
at the bench and take a large hand in qxiieting his
offspring.

‘Hou!’ he would shout, ‘What are all these tears?
One would think you were the penitent Marie Made¬
leine instead of a recently baptised infant with aU its
original sin washed away. Hou! But six months
have you been in this world yet already you make
such a terrible commotion!’

And his deep, booming voice would astonish
Christophe so completely that he must perforce stop
howling. Then Jouse would solemnly return to his
work, and the grating, relentless sound of the saw, or
the silky, furtive sound of the plane would reach Marie
as she bustled about in the kitchen.

It was curious to watch Anfos with the child, quite
merry he could be, and yet there were times when he
seemed almost reverential. He had a way of dropping
onto his knees and offering the baby small, simple
presents. Thus one morning he carved a bird out of
wood — for Anfos had a natural aptitude for carving

35

— and this done he whistled the soft double note
wherewith he had used to attract the wild birds
when he lived in that village high up in the mo untain s,
And he moved his carved bird about and about,
and made it pretend to be bowing to Christophe.
Then Christophe grabbed it and sucked its head, and
kicked his plump legs till his socks came off and he
finally fell back and sprawled in the shavings. After
this Anfos also sprawled on the floor, overcome for
the moment by his own childish instincts; and he made
litde hillocks of golden sawdust so that Christophe
might slap at them with his hands and crow with
delight when the hillocks were scattered; and they
both uttered young, embryonic sounds — which appar¬
ently both of them understood — until Anfos got once
more onto his knees and knelt gazing earnestly down
at Christophe.

Jouse said quietly: ‘To live one must eat, and to
eat one must work.’ So Anfos stumbled up and
returned to the table leg he was making.

Christophe watched mm out of pale blue-grey orbs
which were so wide apart that they made Jouse laugh,
for they gave to the rounded, infantile face an absurdly
candid and wise expression. Christophe watched him,
but Anfos was intent on his job and was therefore no
longer of very great interest; of less interest indeed
than the sawdust and chips which, failing all else,
could at least be eaten.

Marie!’ bawled Jous^, ‘Marie, come quick! Our
child is no longer content with your milk and endea¬
vours to nourish himself upon wood!’ Then Marie
came runmng in from the kitchen, wiping the soap
from her hands on her apron.

‘Santo Ano d’At!’ she exclaimed very loudly, for
she always invoked this saint when annoyed. ‘Santo
Ano d’At! Are you also a child that you cannot keep
one small baby in order but must stand there grinning

36

while he kills himself by swallowing God knows how
many sharp splinters? Pichounet, come here!’ And
picking up Christophe she proceeded to grope in his
mouth with her thumb which he tried to spit out,
disliking its taste, because it was salt and decidedly
soapy.

Marie scolded: ‘Not an hour can I trust you, it
seems, and yet well do you know I have much to do,
for on Monday I always scrub out the kitchen; there
is also the washing which I must iron; there are also
your socks and not one with a heel — I cannot imagine
what you do to your heels, ai, there are holes the size
of duck’s eggs. Santo Ano d’At! Here are two huUdng
men yet neither can lift a child from the floor. I had
better have left him in the charge of Mireio.’

And because she was so seldom angry with them,
Jduse and Anfos were at first nonplussed; then each
in his own way felt rather alarmed.

Jous^ stammered: ‘It comes of his being very small
yet terribly active — a wood-louse crawls slower. A
wood-louse I can catch. . . .’

But here Marie broke in: ‘He has not crawled an
inch; he sits under your nose with his mouth full of
shavings and you find it amusing. As for Anfos, he
pretends to be fond of the child yet does nothing at
all when he sees him in danger!’ And these things she
said, not from hardness of heart but because she had
reaUy been badly frightened.

Poor Anfos made a queer rough sound in his throat
as he tried to swallow the lump that had risen — his
brain was groping for suitable words, and the more it
groped the more it felt muddled. Meanwhile Chris¬
tophe had begun to howl dismally, vaguely sensing
some kind of domestic upheaval.

Marie soothed him, stroking his straight red hair,
the hair that was so much redder than his father’s; the
hair that would always refuse to curl, try though she

37

might to coax it round her finger: ‘Enfantounet, do
not cry, do not cry, paure pichounet. There, there,
all goes well and you are not hurt — though that is
no thanks to your foolish father.’

‘Bigre! I am foolish indeed,’ murmured Jouse.
Then he wheedled; ‘Marioun, do not scold any more.
Listen, Marioun, I am but a man, and all men are
foolish by comparison with women, especially when
they must look after babies!’

She nodded slowly, but now she was smiling. And
because he had called her Marioun — which might
mean that she was exceedingly small, or again, that
she was exceedingly old, but which always meant that
her husband loved her —because he had called her
Marioun, she must suddenly stroke his thick, ageing
back to which the coarse shirt clung closely with
sweat, for the autumn days were as hot as the summer.
And then she must turn kind eyes upon Anfos.

‘Do not be late for dinner;’ she warned them,
‘Goundran has just brought us some magnificent
fish with which I am making the bouillabaisse
bl^che.’ For she knew that her Jouse liked good
things to eat, setting great store by the lusts of the
stomach.

38

Chapter hi

§i

T he following March Marie Benedit was once
again brought to bed of child, and Christophe
was sent to stay for a week with his aunt Germaine
Roustan down at the harbour. Madame Roustan
could not very well refuse to take him, although at the
moment her hands were full, what with Jan who was
angrily cutting his teeth and causing a great deal of
trouble in the process, and Goundran who was show¬
ing himself much averse from her carefully schemed
matrimonial projects, and the landlord who was
threatening a proems legal on account of those hotly
disputed gutters, and the traveller from Toulon who
had brought the wrong samples. Yes, one way and
another her hands were quite full, and now in
addition she was saddled with Christophe.

It was spring and much mating was afloat in the
air, so that foolish fancies assailed Madame Roustan,
and she wished to go forth and walk on the lulls,
picking myrtle for love, for the love of Goundran;
and she wished to sail the seas in a boat, in a fisher¬
man’s boat, and that fisherman Goundran; and she
wished to lie close to a man in her bed, a strong comely
man^ and that man Goundran. These and similar
things she much wished to do, one and^ all of which
were connected with Goundran. And since, instead,
she must stay in the shop and observe whenever she
glanced in the mirror that although the spring might

39

be eternally young, she was not, that indeed at her
time of life unruly emotions were apt to be ageing;
and since such reflections are very distressing even to
the least conceited of women, Madame Roustan was
feeling decidedly cross, for love unrequited is bad for
the temper. Then, as if to augment her sense of irri¬
tation, as she left the Benedit’s house with Christophe
she perceived Eusebe standing at his door, and he
looking as knowing as any old monkey.

‘Santouno!’ exclaimed Eusebe, spitting, the wMe he
evoked all the female saints, ‘ S antouno! How sprightly
and gay you appear; one would think, Madame, that
you tripped to your wedding. But who was it who
said: “It is easier far to net conger-eels than a wily
fisher”!’ For Eusebe could be very spiteful at times,
and moreover he greatly disliked Madame Roustan.

Madame Roustan shrugged her shoulders and would
have passed on, but Eusebe now pretended to play
with the baby: ‘Ho, hoi!’ he cried lou<fiy; and again,
‘Ho, hoi!’ wagging his head and clapping his hands,
untU Christophe, lacking all tact, responded.

Eusebe’s breath smelt of alcohol, and his eye
was blacker than usuzil with mischief: ‘Do not hurry
away from a lonely old man; come in and have a small
cognac,’ he suggested.

Madame Roustan looked shocked: ‘And to think,’
she said sternly, ‘that this place where you stand was
once holy ground; to think that your shop was once
part of a convent!’

‘That is so,’ he nodded, winking at Christophe, ‘and
when I was a lad the good sisters still lived here. Ah,
yes, and I had a great ambition — when one is young
one is drawn to religion.’

‘And what was this great ambition of yours?’
enquired Madame Roustan, very xinwisely.

Tlien Eusebe chuckled: ‘It was this, Madame; I
much longed to sleep with one of the sisters. Houi,

40

and now I live in their house, but what is the shell
without the hernel?’

Madame Roustan clasped Christophe to her out¬
raged breast: ‘Ah, mais non,’ she protested, ‘the man
goes too far; his conversation has ceased to be decent,’

Eus^be watched her as she hurried away, and his
eye became composite in expression; angry, amused
and lascivious it looked, which was very much what
its owner was feeling. ‘That widow,’ he muttered,
‘is as full of bad sap as a wicked old ivy about to
strangle. I have very great fears for the unhappy
Goundran, yes, in spite of that saying about the fisher.’
And shaking his head he retired into his shop, there
to ease those same fears by recourse to the bottle.

§2

Christophe’s visit to Jan Roustan and his parent
was the first really intimate meeting of these cousins.
They had met several times before, it is true, but only
at a distance, from the laps of their mothers.

When Madame Roustan returned to her house,
still outraged by Eusebe’s coarse conversation, she
carried Christophe upstairs to her bedroom where
Jan had been left in the charge of a girl firom the
country, engaged to assist by Jdusfe.

Jan was a year and four months old; a dark-skinned,
aggressive and hot-tempered baby. He was squirming
like Eusebe’s proverbial eels, for he deeply resented
the liberties that rough peasant hands were taking
with him —but unlike those proverbial eels he was
screaming.

‘Rampau de Dieu!’ cried Madame Roustan, plump¬
ing Christophe onto his feet, ‘Rampau de Dieu!
It must be a pin. He will never endure the prick of
a pin — that he will not support for so much as an

41

instant!’ Sitting down she took her son onto her lap
and began, with all possible speed, to undress him.

Christophe gazed at his cousin with pale, intent
eyes in which there was more than a little interest.
Then — as if he himself had never been known to
scream, whatever the provocation — he suddenly
smiled a broad, placid smile, and staggering across
the bedroom to Jan, he touched him with a doubtful
and experimental finger. As though by a miracle
Jan stopped screaming.

The girl from the country gaped in surprise :‘He has
howled without ceasing ever since you left him, yet
now he is quiet and fi-iendly again. Can it he because
he has seen his cousin? Ah, Dieu, but this Christophe
has the look of an angel!’ she babbled to the worried
and preoccupied mother.

T cannot find so much as the trace of a pin; perhaps
he has wind in the stomach,’ sighed Madame Roustan.
And handing her offspring back to the girl, she went
down to the shop to attend to business.

But if Christophe had appeared to be as an angel,
then his subsequent behaviour was a fall from grace,
for he also resented the girl’s clumsy hands and was
soon at some pains to express his resentment. From
her post behind the well-worn counter Madame
Roustan would hear sounds of squealing and wailing.
First one, then the other baby would begin, and after
a while tihere might be a duet, partly owing to colic
but partly to temper. Moreover, since the cousins
had now learnt to walk, they found plenty of ways of
tormenting their elders; so the girl from the country
must quite often weep — not infirequently all. three
of them would be weeping.

Madame Roustan was soon to be further distracted
by the sudden appearance of Mireio one morning.
There she stood with her muzzle pressed close to the
door, making loud, blowing noises that were very
42

unnerving. The moment the shop door was opened
she shot in and proceeded to put her front paws on the
counter. Now MirHo was a very large bitch indeed,
and she fixed Madame Roustan with a pair of brown
eyes that were somehow no longer apologetic.

‘Va t’en! Mais, va t’en!’ Madame Roustan com¬
manded in a voice which she tried hard to keep from
trembling.

Whereupon MirMo displayed her fangs — although
this she did simply because she must smile, for as
every stray cur in Saint Loup was aware, Madame
Roustan could never support words with deeds, being
terrified of the whole canine species. But after a
moment the smile died away and Mirdo setded
doggedly down to business; and her business consisted
of ransacking the shop, then the scullery and kitchen
in search of Christophe, which she did with remark¬
able thoroughness, upsetting a new can of oil in the
process. But since Christophe was seemingly being
concealed, and the door at the foot of the stairs had
been closed, it very soon roused Mirao’s suspicions;
quite natmrally, therefore, she used her strong claws
with devastating results to the paintwork.

‘Ai! las, ai! las,’ Madame Roustan kept wailing, for
already she must mend every gutter on the house, and
that door had but recently been repainted. ‘Ai! las,
that my poor Geoffroi should have died; he would
never have allowed me to be so put upon. How help¬
less is the woman who has lost her husband!’ And she
actually started to wring her plump hands while her
eyes filled with large, childish tears of self-pity.

Then Mireio sat down rather suddenly, and, stretch¬
ing her thin neck over her shoulder, she proceeded
to hunt for the greedy ticks that sucked so much life¬
blood out of her body.

At this moment who should stroll in but Goundran;
he had come to buy needles, cottons, and buttons

43

wherewith he himself would repair his clothes, and
this far more neatly than many a woman. At the
sight of him Madame Roustan burst into sobs, so
relieved was she by his timely arrivzil; and she pointed
to the hopelessly blemished door and then to Mireio,
still intent on her hunting.

‘But why has the dirty beast come here?’ she sobbed,
‘Not only has she upset my new can of oil and rmned
my beautifully painted door, but now she must start
disengaging her ticks — she has surely more ticks on
that carcase of hers than any stray dog this side of
Lyon.’

Goundran said: ‘I think she has come for the child

— it is strange when one sees a dumb creature so
devoted. As for her ticks, I blame those who own her.
Jdus6 should get some paste from the vet.’ And he
gazed at Mireio with Ms bright blue eyes in which
there was always a look of the sea, and just now a
flicker of real understanding. ‘Come,’ he urged,
stroking the beast’s tawny head, ‘come Mireio, you
need have no anxiety for Christophe.’ Then he led
her gently to the door of the shop, and when Goundran
said: ‘Va t’en!’ Mirao obeyed turn.

By now Madame Roustan was drying her tears, the
while her heart began beating more quickly, for
Goundran was a lovely man in her sight. But she
thought: ‘All these men of the sea are so strange.
How strange was the way that he spoke to that
bitch — it was almost as though he considered her
human. Paste firom the vet he would have Jousd buy.
Te! And what next would he have Mm do? He must
think the poor Jousfe has plenty of money!’ Then she
went to a drawer for the needles and threads,
finally got out a large box of buttons.

Goundran made Ms selection very slowly and
gravely, for when a fisherman mends Ms own clothes

— however expert he may have become —he must

44

always be careful in regard to those things that large
and rope-hardened fingers will handle. Thus the
needles he chose had conspicuous eyes, while the
cottons were stout and unlikely to break as some cottons
will do on the least provocation. His buttons also he
would have very strong; good, hefty bone buttons
guaranteed not to split —Madame Roustan ordered
them specially for him. And such purchases he invari¬
ably carried away in his pocket to a house lower down
on the quay, the house where he had boarded since
the death of his parents. It belonged to a woman of
so venerable an age that, according to fable, she
was nearly a hundred.

Madame Roustan did up his small parcel with
care, but her heart was angry and suspicious within
her, for this woman had recently sent for a niece, on
the pretext of failing activity and eyesight. It is
true that this niece was only a child, a thin, quiet
little girl stiU pale firom the city, but as Madame
Roustan was wont to remark, and with obvious truth:
‘All cats were once kittens.’ So now while she did
up his parcel with care, her heart was angry and
suspicious within her.

She said — and it was extremely foolish, but then
love is apt to make the tongue tactless —she said:
‘All this buying of womanish tibings! If I were a hand¬
some young fellow like you, I would soon get a wife
who would do my mending.’ Then she looked a great
deal which she did not say, so that Goundran shufiied
about with his feet and nervously held out his hand for
the parcel.

And now Madame Roustan must laugh none too
kindly: ‘Te, but perhaps you have a wife in your eye;
though surely the litde Elise is too young —she is
fitter to play with dolls than to bear children. How¬
ever, as my grandmother used to say: “All cats were
once Httens,” and Elise will grow up; no doubt it

45

is only a question, of waiting. Ah, but that old aunt of
hers is crafty, although I am told that she pretends
to be blind and deaf and unable to move her body.
It may soon be a case of the catcher caught, for un¬
doubtedly she wishes to marry her niece to a man who
has purchased his own fishing vessel. . .

She paused, feeling more than a little breathless,
while he stared at her out of his bright blue eyes as
though he were lacking in comprehension. And this
was what made him so hard to woo, this vague, rather
stupid look that he had whenever she tried to talk
about women.

‘Madame, you mistake;’ he said patiently, ‘the little
Elise, as you say, is a child. Moreover it is true that old
Mathilde goes blind; I was speaking only this morning
with the doctor. I have much to consider now that I
have bought my boat, and hardly a centime left in
the bank. No, madame, I am not contemplating this
marriage — or any other marriage, if it comes to
that. I find myself well enough as I am, and surely
a man should not marry a wife merely because she will
do his mending?’

‘Ah, how like him,’ she thought, ‘to have seized
upon the words which must make me appear to be
lacking in feeling.’ But aloud she said: ‘Go your ways,
my good Goundran, only when you are caught do not
come to my shop and complain that your dinner is
badly prepared, that your house is ill kept and your
socks ul darned because you have married a chit
from the city. Do not complain for you will have been
wpned. I have long thought that old Mathilde is a
witch, and witches are said to give men love-potions!’

Then Goundran laughed: ‘Ah, madame, if you
knew her — old she is, but so kind and so fiill of wisdom.
If Mathilde is a witch, as you wish me to believe,
then you and I will meet witches in heaven. Yes,
and possibly the devil will be there to let them in,
46

standing at the gate side by side with Saint Peter.’
(\nd still laughing he turned and went out of the shop.

‘He is stubborn, that Goundran,’ sighed Madame
Roustan.

§3

Three nights later Madame Roustan, feeling
thoroughly tired, decided to go to her bed rather
early. The weather was hot for the time of year and
tier small sitting-room seemed unpleasantly airless;
added to which a high, clarion note had just
announced the first spiteful mosquito.

Madame Roustan both liked and admired her
bed-room with its shiny mock-mahogany suite pur¬
chased by her late husband in Toulon; with its salmon-
pink neatly distempered walls, and its double bed
made of the best lacquered brass, from the arms of
which depended pink cmtains; with its crucifix
hanging above the bed in a species of very ornate
glazed coffin; with its piety books on their litde gilt
shelf, and its prie-dieu at which she now so seldom
knelt, the moths having eaten away its cushion. All
these furnishings seemed to her very select — she felt
that they set her apart from her neighbours.

In a stout and fairly capacious cot made by Jdus^
and considered by Madame Roustan to be the one
blemish upon the apartment, lay the infant cousins,
Chiistophe and Jan. To Madame Roustan’s enormous
relief as she tiptoed about, they were placidly sleeping.
Every night since her godson’s unwelcome advent
her much-needed rest had been ruthlessly broken —
either by Christophe who ground his gums, then woke
up in a consequent sweat of anguish, or by Jan who,
preferring his cot to himself, was not always polite to
the new arrival. But now — praise be to God and the
Holy Flower — they seemed peaceful enough and were

47

actually sleeping. Madame Roustan smothered a
noisy yawn, and after a while she started to undress,
having carefully closed and bolted the shutters.

Divesting herself of her skirt and blouse she stood
forth in a short cotton petticoat and black stays, the
latter supporting her breasts at a lofty and somewhat
aggressive angle. Her fat legs ended disconcertingly
in a pair of very tight high-heeled shoes which cut
into the flesh of her insteps and ankles. She was above
all a creature of routine, as methodical in personal
habits as in business. For years she had dressed and
undressed by rote and at this stage she always let down
her hair, so that now she withdrew the discoloured
bronze hairpins; after which she scraped her scalp
with the comb and proceeded to brush out the con¬
sequent dandruff. Having made a firm plait — for
her hair was still thick — she untied the strings of her
coarse undergarments, and these neatly disposed of
on a neighbouring chair, she heaved a deep sigh of
anticipation, for the moment of release had arrived
at last; she had longed for this moment intensely
all the evening. Madame Roustan released herself
from her stays, and the heavy white flesh billowed out
unrebuked as her figure resumed its natural propor¬
tions; and the brealii passed freely through her long-
sufiering lungs, since her belly had ceased to be one
with her bosom. But not all the flea-bitten tick-
pestered dogs who rubbed against walls or sat scratch¬
ing at comers, not all that mangy and bastard crew
could have itched more consumedly than did Madame
Roustan. Slipping a hand beneath her chemise,
she scratched with a kind of agonized rapture.

It was while she was scratching the small of her
back that she suddenly heard a surreptitious noise
as of someone lurking under the bed. Panic-stricken
she stood, and her fingers stiffened. As she listened
came the sound of a body that moved, that appeared
48

to be quietly turning over; and deep breathing she
heard, then a long-drawn sigh, then something not
very unlike a yawn; and all this from beneath her
respectable bed where she kept the cardboard box of
the hat in which she was wont to attend Mass on
Sundays. Madame Roustan was a timid woman by
nature and had long lived in nightly terror of thieves —
that was why, no matter how stifling the weather, she
invariably closed and bolted her shutters,. But now,
though the shutters were bolted as usual, there could
be little doubt that a thief had entered; and she stand¬
ing stripped all but down to the skin, which would
place many women at a grave disadvantage. Madame
Roustan felt that God was not kind, for she bitterly
regretted her discarded stays which had now assumed
the importance of armour. All the same she ran over
a long list of saints, for God alone through His saints
could help her.

‘O Santi Mario,’ she prayed desperately, feeling
that there must be safety in numbers,, since three
Holy Marys would surely be stronger than one when
it came to smiting an assassin: ‘O Mary the mother of
James and John; O Mary the sister of the bless&d
Virgin, O Mary Magdalene come to my aid. I
beseech you to preserve my life and my virtue!’

Now whether the Holy Three heard her prayer, or
whether Madame Roustan’s femi^e nerves were
not really so weak as she often imagined, is a question
which must perforce go imanswered. But the fact
remains that snatching up a shawl for propriety’s
sake, she peered xmder me bed, where she found
what was almost worse than a man — a watchful,
determined and aggressive Mireio.

Mir^o eyed Madame Roustan’s fat calves with an
interest that quite plainly bespoke her intentions; ^d
as Madame Roustan straightened her back, Mirao
straightened her back, growling darkly. It was clear

D 49

that the creature intended to remain precisely where
she was, on guard near Christophe.

Then Madame Roustan flung herself into her
clothes, caring not a fig if she woke both the babies;
indeed all but forgetting her erstwhile fears in a
sudden uprush of Meridional temper. Hiking the
protesting Jan firom his cot, she dumped him in the
sitting-room behind the shop, where she locked him
for safety during her absence — Christophe, she
decided, it was wiser to leave where he was, in view
of his watchful guardian. Breathless and perspiring
with anger and heat, she made her way round to the
Benedit’s house where she knocked with such vigour
that the curious Eusebe must get up and thrust his
head out of the window.

‘P6u!’ he remarked with enormous disdain, ‘It
would seem that the widow prowls the tiles; out at
this hour alone on the streets. But what does she want
with the Benedits? Does she think that Goundran
now boards with her brother?’

Jouse, who had run to the door in his night-shirt,
stood blinking at his sister in sleepy amazement; ‘Eh
bien — has the devil come to Saint Loup and stolen
the church bells to melt them in hell? Or is it that
we have a new Prussian invasion? But whatever it is,
need you break down the house when my wife was
confined only yesterday morning?’ Then a sudden
great fear came into his eyes: ‘Do not tell me that all
is not well with Christophe. . . .?’

‘Christophe,’ she told him, ‘is very well indeed. At
this moment he is being guarded by your bitch. But
my little Jan I have had to lock up — as for myself, I
have been in great peril. I have left the beast crouch¬
ing under my bed. She growled like a fiend when she
saw my bare legs, in another moment she wotdd have
attacked me. Had the Holy Marys not inspired me
with the courage to get into my clothes and then rush

50

xom the house, I scarcely dare contemplate what
might have happened. I insist that you accompany
me home on the instant!’

Jouse was a placid man as a rule, but his nerves
at the moment were badly on edge, for Marie had
been through a dangerous confinement. Thus the
element of fear may have been to blame for the sudden
and unexpected^ fiiry with which he now turned and
upbraided his sister.

‘Imbecile!’ he bellowed, ‘You come to my home and
make a noise likely to wake up the dead when my wife,
who has suffered the tortures of the damned, has only
just managed to get oflf to sleep; yes, and you wake up
our ailing baby. Could you not have come and told
me discreetly? Ah, and you save your Jan but leave
Christophe. Who can say that Mirao has not got
the rage? Yet you leave my son alone with her in the
room! Did you bring Christophe with you as you
should have done? Ah, no, for you only think of
saving your skin, and the dirty skin of your miserable
Jan. Dieu, what a woman I have for a sister!’

He paused, ransacking his brain for fresh in¬
sults, but before he had found them his sister was
ready.

‘I would rather a mad dog than you;’ she told him,
‘a nice scandal you make rousing up the whole street
— already Eus^be hangs out of his window! It is
not I who wake up your wife and baby, but you with
all this indecent shouting. And if Marie has borne
you a sickly child it is surely your doing who are no
longer young and are probably past the time for
strong breeding. As for ifcMo, is it my fault that you
keep a savage and verminous bitch who threatens to
kin me in my own bedroom? As for Christophe,
had I lifted him out of the cot Mirfeio would surely
have tom my throat. It is you and not I who shall
deal with MirHo!’

51

Then J6usfe dragged hard at his beard and swore,
and his oaths embraced the whole calendar of saints,
not even excepting the three Holy Marys. And he lost
his thread and swore by his sister; then he lost it
again and swore by his bitch; then he found it and
swore by the sword of Saint Loup — the sword that
had vanquished the hordes of the heathen. Indeed,
so bewildered did Jouse become — for his anger had
gone to his head like liquor — that in the end it was
hard to decide who, or what, had roused up this
access of fury.

‘Malan de Dieu,’ he swore finally, ‘it is time that I
go and punish the beast — who knows but that it is
time I Mlled her! And you also I would very much
like to thrash. Dieu, there is little to choose between
you!’ Slipping into a dusty old overcoat which he
took from a peg just inside the doorway, he went round
to the yard and fetched a strong chain, and a stick
wherewith he would beat MirHo. Then he turned to
his sister: ‘Gome, let us go quickly!’

When they finally reached Madame Roustan’s
house, Jousfe rushed to the bedroom in search of his
son. Christophe lay sprawled in the cot sound asleep.
‘Now may Jesus and His Mother be thanked,’ whis¬
pered Jouse. Then he dragged the bitch from under
the bed, who, knowing her master, came unprotesting;
and when he had got her outside on the road he
twisted her collar and started to beat her. And the
stick crashed ruthlessly down on her bones, for her
flesh was scanty through long under-feeding.

But Mir^o endured with never a cry for hers was a
dumbly courageous nature, and moreover she well
knew that she would endure even death, if need be, for
the sake of Christophe. And so while the stick
crashed down on her bones, there leapt up in her poor
and much battered body, a thing very nearly akin
to God, a gleam of the selfless love of the spirit — for

52

rho may presume to qualify love which is one with
le God who is one with His creatures?

Presently, Jouse’s wrath being spent, he must
irow away the stick, for he felt deeply shamed by his
wn unexpected brutality, and the stick which was
loody would have been a reminder. Very slowly the
^ro of them turned towards home, he with bent head
nd she limping a little; while the moon which had
Lsen up over the bay, touched a trickle of blood on
firao’s gaunt side, so that Jous^ must look in another
irection. All the same, he determined to chain the
itch closely, for his mind could not hold very many
motions, and now it was once again full of his wife
^ho lay feverish and ill with a sickly baby. On no
ccount therefore must she be disturbed, and so he
etermined to chain the bitch closely.

53

Chapter iv

§i

W HEN Marie was once more up and about, which
was not until nearly three weeb later, Jous^
walked slowly to his sister’s house; he was feeling
awkward and embarrassed. Two tasb were confronting
him on this occasion —the one pleasant, the other
humiliating; he was going to carry his little son home,
but before doing so he must apologize to Germaine
for his own inexcusable temper.

He had had to leave Ckistophe with Madame
Roustan much longer than he and his wife had
intended, and this because Marie had been very ill.
Only with considerable difficulty had they saved her
life and that of the baby. So determined had this
second child seemed to be to return to that haven
from which they had called him, that the Cure had
been sent for during the night in order that the small
and complaining soul might display the badge of a
Christian to Saint Peter —a hasty and melancholy
baptism indeed, neither patronized by fiiends nor
followed by feasting.

Madame Roustan was in her sitting-room when
Jdusfe arrived looking rather sheepish. These two
had not met smce their noisy quarrel, all communi¬
cations having been written with great brevity and
exchanged through Anfos.

‘Ah,’ Madame Roustan snapped, ‘so it is you!’
which did not strike Jouse ax a hopefol beginning.

54

‘I have called for Christophe, my sister . . he
mumbled, combing his curly beard with his fingers.

‘He still fives!’ she remarked satirically; after which
there was silence for more than a minute.

Then Jous^ grasped the bull by the horns: ‘I am
truly sorry for all that has happened. I admit that I
found myself in a rage ... I was terribly anxious
about my poor wife ... Eh bien, there it is, I apolo¬
gize, and more than that no brother can do; so now I
hope we are friends again, Germaine.’ And he clum¬
sily bent down and kissed her on both cheeks, for
a family feud was not to be thought of.

Madame Roustan accepted this embrace with
coldness; nevertheless she enquired about Marie and
would have the latest details of the child, for she had a
vast curiosity in regard to all matrimonial matters.
Jous^ told her as well as he could, which was not very-
well it must be admitted, and after she had heard
him out to the end, she announced her intention of
pa-ying them a -visit.

‘No doubt had I been in charge,’ she said sternly,
‘all these complications would never have happened.’
So Jouse knew that the breach was now healed, for
which he was more than a little thankful.

But one other thing, and the hardest of all, he must
say to his sister before he left her: ‘Germaine . . . ’ he
began, ‘I will ask a favour. It is something which I
beg that you -wiU not tell Marie. It concerns Mir^io
whom I beat that night ... I do not want Maiie
to know what I did — she is still in a state when it
might upset her.’

Madame Roustan bridled: ‘Must you then spare
the bitch but allow your o-wn sister to be torn to
pieces?’

‘No, no,’ he said hastily, ‘not that, of course. But
. . . well, I do beg that you -will say nothing. I am
far firom a -violent man as a rule, and although Marie

55

feels no affection for the bitch, I would rather she
did not hear of the beating.’ And in this he was
wise, for if Marie had known she would surely have
been very deeply grieved, though much less for
MirHo than for her husband.

‘If you do not wish me to speak of my peril, I suppose
that I must try not to do so,’ frowned his sister, ‘though
when one has returned from the jaws of death, one
may well not remember to hold one’s tongue.’ And
with this Jouse had perforce to be contented.

But presently Christophe was in his arms and his
heart was rejoicing at ms son’s firm body, rejoicing
at the healthful vigour of this child whom he had
fathered when nearing fifty, so that just for the moment
he was vastly content, forgetting the ailing and pre¬
mature baby.

‘Ho, Christophe, enfantounet! Ho, here is your
father! That is grand, little fist of iron, pull my beard
— if you pull hard enough you may make it imcurl.
That is splendid, I would have you kick with your
legs, for only by kicking wUl the small legs grow
stronger. H6u, but they are mighty already, these
legs. And what arms for the son of a carpenter; it is
you who shall carry the heaviest timber! H6u, but
some day you shall carry a tree! Laugh, enfantounet!
See, Germaine, how he laughs. . . And now we must
go, for his mother waits; but first he would say farewell
to his cousin.’

So Madame Roustan fetched her own son — that
dark-skhmed, aggressive and hot-tempered baby. And
the cousins grabbed at each other and smiled; then
they suddenly stared at each other very gravely.

‘Jan is also a fine little feUow,’ said Jousfe, wishing
to make up for that turbulent night.

‘Mais oui,’ sighed his sister, ‘yet how sad is the child
who having a mother has lost his father!’

‘Ah, but there is surely time.’ Jous^ consoled her.

56

'If he loses one father you should give him another,
and that you must make up your mind to do.’ For
he felt so happy with Christophe in his arms, that he
very much wished all the world to be happy. But
when she flushed darkly and did not reply, he grew
awkward again, remembering Goundran. ‘Oh, well,’
he temporized tactlessly, ‘some women are glad to be
rid of their men, and after all you will have a good son
, . . Who knows but that sons are better than hus¬
bands?’

‘Pecaire!’ he thought, ‘I anger her again — yet
to-day I have wished to be kind to Germaine.’ Then
feeling that words were treacherous things, he kissed
Madame Roustan once more and departed.

§2

Le tout petit Loup, as they called the new infant,
irstly because this baptismal name must surely attract
die good Saint’s attention, and secondly because he
was indeed very small — much smaller, they felt,
than were most other infants —le tout petit Loup
suffered greatly from his stomach which was weak,
irom his skin which broke out in rashes, firom his
rickety limbs which ached badly at times, and from
juite a number of other discomforts, since from birth
le had been an unhealthy baby. Le tout petit Loup
very seldom laughed, though he wept and made other
iisconsolate noises, so that Marie augmented her
iaily prayers to the warrior-bishop who had loved
lelpless things; she even reminded him of the bird that
lad lived, through his mercy, to sing in his garden.

There were now two children to clothe and to
bed, so Jousb must keep his account-book more
really, and must send in his bills as they became due,
n the hope that he would receive prompt payment;
or the doctor and the chemist had also to live ff Loup

57

were not to slip out of existence. Soinetimes Jous^
would catch himself wondering how a thing so minute
could absorb so much money, whereupon he would
feel very penitent and would make a rough effort to
fondle the baby.

Marie would push away his great hand, not un¬
kindly, indeed often smihng a litfie, but; ‘Take care,’
she would warn, ‘he is fretful to-day, and your hand
is so rough that it may torment him.’ And then she
herself would fondle the hand as though it noight
possibly be feeling offended.

As the months went by it became apparent that
Loup took but little interest in Christophe and that
Christophe took but little interest in Loup. Sometimes
Jouse would hold them both on his knees, tickling
first one child then the other in an effort to make
them more affable and friendly, but without much
success:

‘It is queer,’ he would muse, ‘one would think that
my children were strangers in blood.’ And then he
would give Christophe a mighty hug, but Loup he
would hand gravely back to his mother.

Le tout petit Loup was afraid of MirMo and he
screamed whenever the bitch went near him. Jous^
would cuff her severely at times and would shut her
up in a shed in the yard, for this fear of Mir^o who
was always so gentle with the babies, shamed not
only his pride but his manhood.

‘It seems that I no longer sire courage,’ he would
mutter, and then he would let his eyes rest upon
Christophe, seeking in him to find consolation.

Anfos was kind to the ailing baby, for he was a
kindly and good-natured fellow; but his love once
given would never be shared — like MirMo, he
adored only one human being. Christophe they
adored and Christophe alone, these two simple-minded
and primitive creatures.

58

And so it happened that le tout petit Loup must
root deeply in the anxious heart of his mother. He
who was ailing and weak in all else was yet lusty
when it came to his need of Marie; and she feeling
this need as he lay at her breast or whimpered because
his small limbs were aching — she feeling this urgent
and ruthless need, rallied all her maternal strength
to meet it. If Christophe was the apple of his mother’s
eye, le tout petit Loup was the fruit of her compassion.
And because of the care which she lavished upon
bim, a care that was selfless and weU-nigh unceasing,
he actually lived, le tout petit Loup, and became
almost reconciled to existence. Strong, as Christophe
was strong, he would never be, but one morning the
doctor was more reassuring:

‘Give him time and his troubles should pass away.
He wiU not grow so fast as your other son, still, I
think we shall see him grow into a man.’

‘May the Golden Saints be blessed!’ exclaimed Marie.
And that same afternoon she went to the church where
she lighted many candles for the ailing child, and left
them to plead at the shrine of his Patron.

§3

The spring had given place to the summer which, in
its turn, had given place to the autumn; then had come
the winter with its turbulent mistral, to be followed by
spring, and yet once more by summer. Christophe
a nd his cousin Jan grew apace, both in stature and
in their marked mutual affection. At two_ years old
they wordd cry for each other, resenting, it seemed,
their enforced separation. Indeed they were tiresome
enough at times, and inclined to wear on the nerves
of their parents.

There was little to mark the passing of the days
during that semi-tropical weather when the heat

59

hung in motionless mist on the hills, creeping vineyard
by vineyard up to the mountains. Marie, though less
vigorous since the birth of Loup, was able to take up
her old busy existence; Jouse and Anfos worked in the
shop; Christophe crawled in the shavings or slept
in the sunshine; Mireio eternally hunted her ticks,
and Eusebe squatted among his sandals. While
down at the port Goundran painted his boat a bright
green that matched certain moods of the sea; and a
band of deep blue his boat must have also — deep blue
and bright green for the sea in a ntistral.

The port smelt of tar, fishing tackle and wine as the
smi beat down in his full August glory, making the
tar turn sticky on the planks, and the scales that still
clung to the fishermen’s nets gleam softly like strange,
opalescent jewels, and the dregs that still lurked in
the empty wine casks reek with a queer, very ancient
reek which stirred thoughts of the Godless god that
was Bacchus. For now in this tranquil, propitious
weather, there had come the tartanes with their
broad lateen sails, bringing the casks to be filled with
wine —the casks which a man could roll with such
ease when empty, but which when their round bellies
were full needed two men or more to attend to the
rolling. Once loaded the tartanes would sail down the
coast, their decks darkly stained, their hulls low to
water; while some, greatly daring, might put out to
sea and steer for the shores of Africa where the
Provencal wines found an excellent market. The
crews of the tartanes, when they came ashore, would
be treated to drinks, and thi^ fairly often, for these
were adventurous fellows who, when drunk, could be
trusted to teU many full-blooded yams, most of which
would be closely connected with women. They could
also tell of a wind far more deadly than that which
came from the desert of La Crau, so well known to all
those who lived in Saint Loup that its advent had

6o

ceased to be of much interest. And a sun they could
tell of— if they spoke God’s truth — that would turn
the sunshine of Saint Loup into moonlight.

To the port would come the old toper Eus^be
sniffing the air with distended nostrils, and as likely
as not neglecting his work while some client must
wait for a new pair of sandals. Eusebe’s one eye would
ogle the girls who, bare-headed and comely, went
about their own business: ‘Te,’ he would grunt,
‘a good figure she has — when she is older she should
have a fine bosom.’ And other very personal things
he would say to himself, or to anyone else who would
listen.

When the large southern moon swung up over the
sea, she might find Eusebe sitting in a cafe. The Cafe
de la Tarasque was the one he preferred because
there he believed that he drank the best wine, since
much of it came from his own prized vineyards; there
also the fishermen danced with their sweethearts
and would sometimes make love in conspicuous
corners. But Eusebe must guard his roving black eye,
for tempers were short while knives could be long
on those hot summer nights when the blood throbbed
hard, and the little violinist with the hump on his
back stirred more than the air by his shrill, teasing
music. Eusebe must think of his long-dead wife until
he had transformed her into a houri; and the deeper
he drank of the juice of the grape, the more scandalous
became his unseemly visions. It was certainly as well
that he always forgot them the next morning, since
who knows what he might have told Madame Roustan
— or even the Cme, for that matter!

The men from the tartanes would jostle his table
and make fun of the eye that he could not see with:
‘Oh, le vieux bougre, he has a stone eyel’ And perhaps
one of them would thrust his girl forward on Eusebe’s
blind side; ‘Behold!’ he might say amid roars of

6i

appreciation and laughter. But Eus^be by this time
would be lost in his dreams, which had wafted him
far away from la Tarasque and Saint Loup to the
paradise of Mahomet.

Sometimes Madame Roustan would come in and
drink coffee, for although she was always berating
the place, there was just a vague chance that she
might glimpse Goundran. But Goundran seldom went
to cafes these days, for now it was needful that he
should save money — fishing vessels cost a good deal
to run when a man is responsible for his own tackle
— so after awhile Madame Roustan would go home
very angry indeed with the little Elise and her aunt,
whom she blamed for her wasted evening.

Jouse might wander along from the town to get a
breath of salt air at the harbour; he might even stop
for a glass of beer and a small cigarette with the patronne
of la Tarasque. She was stout, beetle-browed, and
courageous in brawls; indeed she had once seized a
drunken sailor by the hair and had dragged him into
the street, whereupon he had burst into tears on her
bosom. When the fun ran so high that it ended in
tempers —for these people were but little removed
from children —the patronne would thump her fist
on the desk, and woiild threaten to close the bar for
the night, which quite often reduced ^e chaos to
order. M^e Mdlanie, they called her, though why
God only knew, for in wedlock she had proved herself
stubbornly sterile. And now that her husband had
been drowned at sea, it was said that she lived with the
li^e violinist — the little violinist with the hump on
his back who drew such shrill, teasing tunes from his
fiddle. It was also said that she beat him when he
drank, and conversely, that he beat her hard every
night_ before they retired to their unhallowed couch;
but since neither of the pair ever turned black and
blue it was not at all easy to prove these assertions.

62

Moreover M6re Melanie was piously inclined and
made many novenas — this at least was a fact. She
also gave largely of her profits to the Church, which
was strange in view of the little violinist. Anyhow,
she seemed well content with her God, with herself,
with her business, and with most of her clients.

Jouse never stayed overlong at la Tarasque, for
Marie could now seldom leave the babies, and Jouse
could not very well leave his wife — there was so
much to be done for le tout petit Loup whose tempera¬
ture still went up in the evenings. Anfos never went
to the Cafe at all, being far too timid, since he was
half-witted; while Mireio might not go because of a
feud which she had with the patronne’s chienne de
chasse — a base-bom, red-pelted amazon with a lust
for war and a devilish temper.

Nor can it be denied that the mayor of Saint Loup,
the Cure, and indeed not a few of the townsfolk, had
cast disapproving glances at the Cafe de la Tarasque,
for the noise would continue throughout the night
and well into the early hours of the mon^g. Why,
on one particularly shameful occasion, it had not
subsided by six o’clock when the Cure was ringing
the bell for Mass and the faithful were on their way to
Communion.

And yet . . . when the moon was abnormally
large and the water beneath her seemed cut out of
silver, while the purposeful masts of lie anchored
ships thrust up through her beams with relentless
vigour; when the port and starboard lights shifted
and glowed like the eyes of so many fabulous dragons;
when the midnight heat grew articulate^ by reason
of a deeply significant silence holding in it those
reeking odours of wine, and those thoughts of the
Godless god that was Bacchus; when the girls could
not sleep on their virginal beds, and^ the youths could
not sleep for their thoughts of virgins, and the men

63

coining back to dry land from the sea with their hard
gotten cash, burned to spend it on women . . . When
all these things merged and were liquified, producing
a bitter-sweet and most heady potion, then the Cafe
de la Tarasque seemed a pretty fine place to those
who were leniently disposed towards themselves, and
also towards human nature in general. And if
tempers were short while knives could be long; and
if Eusebe took liberties with a virtuous wife who had
gone to Heaven; and if Mere Melanie gave to her
Church rather less than she gave to her hump-backed
violinist; if all this was the very deplorable truth —
and alas, there is little room left for doubting — then, it
must be remembered that the town of Saint Loup
was, and is, in a curve of the coast of Provence, so
that those who would judge the south by the north
might profitably ask good Saint Loup himself to
develop their wisdom and understanding.

64

Chapter v

§i

A ntoine Martel, Cur6 of Saint Loup, sat at his
shabby mahogany desk with his pen in his hand,
but his pen was idle. He should have been writing his
weekly sermon, but instead he was staring across at
the window through which he could glimpse an old
orange tree which was now in full bloom in his
little garden. The Cure Martel did not care much for
trees, being, on the whole, indifferent to nature, and
so while he stared across at the window, he perceived
and yet did not perceive the blossoms.

The room was humble except for its books which
covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Above a
tubular iron stove hung a cheap crucifix, while upon
the desk stood a garish statue of the Madonna. An
arm-chair, well worn and sagging in the seat, together
with one or two rush-bottom chairs completed the
furnishing of the apartment.

The Cure was a man of fifty-nine, tall, untidy, and
of an exceeding thinness. He possessed the slightly
prominent eyes which so frequently characterize
the religious. His mouth, which had once been
handsome but weak, was austere from long years of
physical repression, his teeth were discoloured and
somewhat decayed and his chin appeared dirty
because it was unshaven. For the rest, his hair was
prematurely white and his high, massive brow was
that of a scholar.

E

65

The Cure Martel had been born in Paris, and there
he had lived during all his childhood, and there he had
made his clerical studies. There also he had passed
through the most vital days, the most poignant days
of his budding manhood, when desiring to serve — first
God, then the flesh, but finally God, he had thrust
away all thoughts of a home and a wife and children.
But as sometimes happens, an old battlefield upon
which men have bled and striven and suffered will
hold for them a certain romance, and so it was with
the Cure and Paris; he could seldom remember the
city without feeling regret for those days of his youth¬
ful warfare.

He would never have chosen to work for the Lord in
a small seaport town on the coast of Provence; indeed,
when he thought of the matter at all, he would find
himself wondering, how he had got there. Had it
been his desire for solitude at a time when he was
spiritually and physically exhausted? Or had some
unknown ill-wisher in the Church contrived to get
him sent into exile? Or had it been the purpose of
Almighty God, which could only be seen as through a
glass darkly? If the Cure found himself unable to
decide, it was because he invariably left an important
factor out of his reckoning; he forgot that he was above
all else a student, and that those who dwell too much
in the realms of thought are sometimes but poorly
equipped for action. Thus, despite the more valiant
days of his youth; his war with the flesh and his
ultimate triumph; his brilliant career at the seminary;
his good birth, and his then distinguished appearance.
Mother Church — who had gained a sound knowledge
of men in the bitter but useful school of disillusion —
had quietly packed him off to Saint Loup, where he
had now been for close on thirty years, and where he
seemed likely enough to remain until he presented
himself to Saint Peter.

66

A good man, a kind man in his own dusty way, he
was yet never quite at ease with his flock — with those
people who lived in perpetual sxmshine. Nor was he
quite at ease with their land, so ardently productive,
so persistently pagan. The ample hills leaning back
to the mountains; the valleys splashed with the live
green of vineyards; the sweet yet virile smell of wild
shrubs, which crept even into the town on spring
evenings; the tideless but often treacherous sea of so
vast and so incredible a blueness, these things would
disturb him strangely at times, in spite of his habitual
indiflTerence to nature, so that he would feel a little
afraid and more than a little homesick for Paris. And
then there was the language. This was also disturbing,
for it seemed to be one with the sun-drenched land¬
scape. Like the scent of the maquis it was virile yet
sweet, the old singing tongue of the troubadour
poets; having in its words many sounds of love, many
sounds of desire, many soimds as of sighing, as of
weeping, as of laughing — aye, and deep notes of
war wherewith to contrast its persuasive sweetness.
His stiflF northern tongue could not compass this speech,
and so it invariably made him uneasy. And then
there was the primitive faith of the people, which to
him appeared riddled with superstition; nay worse,
it appeared to partake of those things which belonged
to an age that was frankly unchristian. Beu Dieu
might apply to his God, it was true, but it equally
might apply to Apollo; nor did he consider Nosto-
Damo-d’Amour a smtable way of addressing the
Virgin. Truth to tell, the Cure disliked the south,
mistrusting its religion quite as much as its sunshine.

And yet the south was getting him under, for to
those who are born and reared in the north, the south
may become an insidious poison; moreover the Cure
was predisposed to the virus by very reason of his
nature. Thus year by year he was growing less vital

67

and less wishful to take an active interest in events
which transpired in the outer world, or indeed within
his own limited parish.

It had not always been so with the Cure. When he
had first arrived at Saint Loup he had had quite a
crop of political opinions. The Royalist intrigue of
Marshal MacMahon, had found in him an ardent
supporter. And again, when in 1886 Boulanger spread
his Chauvinistic doctrines, the Curd had preached
Chauvinism from his pulpit —for this man was a
fanatical patriot despite his retiring disposition. But
try as he might, he had never succeeded in rousing
the members of his little flock to more than a fleeting
enthusiasm. Whatever the temper of adjacent coast-
towns, the inhabitants of the town of Saint Loup
seemed to lack the political disposition. They
remained indifferent to governments so long as there
was no undue taxation which affected their particular
industries, the chief of which were vine growing and
fishing. For they argued that the sun shone impartially
on the just as on the unjust politician; that the vines
grew ripe and gave forth their grapes, which in turn
found their profitable way to the presses; that the
wine was good, cheap, and near at hand, and that
so, for the matter of that, were the fishes; and that since
everybody was well content, governmental disputes
were none of their business. Thus, reluctantly — very
reluctantly at first — the Curd had abandoned political
opinions, for what was the good of provocative speech
when nobody troubled to contradict you? As time
went on he lived only for his books, caring less and less
about his personal appearance, allowing his once
strong teeth to decay rather than exert himself to go
to the dentist; spilling his onion soup down his soutane
and not always troubling to wash oflT the stains, any
more than he troubled to shave every mor ning ; while
his mind, except when focused on the page of some

68

obscure but erudite volume, sank into a sun-doped
lethargy from which nothing seemed significant
enough to wake it.

Yet now, on this Saturday afternoon when the Cure
sat staring out of the window, his mind was actually
very wide awake, for his thoughts were engrossed by a
human affection. Every Sunday, in the parish church
before Vespers, the Cure must give religious instruc-
don to the children who attended the secular school,
where most things were taught except religion. It
was while he had been taking this particular class
that he had first noticed Jan and CMstophe — two
ueat little boys of six years old, very shiny and clean
because it was Sunday. The Cure had baptized them
both, it is true, but then he baptized so many babies
in the frxiitful town of Saint-Loup-sur-mer that he
[juite lost count once they ceased to be infants. But
for some strange reason he had looked at these boys
intently, with a sudden awakening of interest. That
evening he had found himself thinking about them,
and smiling a little as he remembered Christophe’s
sager and over-sanguine reply to a question regarding
the Day of Judgment: ‘And what will our Lord say
:o sinners,’ he had asked him, ‘to those sinful and very
anhappy creatures who are weeping outside the gates
afHeaven?’ ‘Comeunto Me,’ Chiistophehad answered.
But his fiiend had looked both shamed and aghast:
That is wrong —that is terribly wrong!’ he had
whispered. So the Cure had given Jan a book which
jxplained to the young the Christian religion; and
mother book he had given to Christophe, which
explained to the young the beliefs of the Church
concerning the wicked and Life Everlcistiag; after
which he had asked the children their names, and had
written them neatly on each paper cover. This had
lappened more than a year ago, so that now his
pupils were over seven.

Jouse and Marie were humble people; very grateful
and flattered when they found that the Cure was
showing an interest in their elder son, and had even
put himself to the trouble of enquiring whether le
tout petit Loup might accompany his brother to the
Sunday classes. Le tout petit Loup was still rather
fragile and was not at all well disposed towards
religion, being fretful or impish when saying his
prayers, and this despite his illustrious patron. How¬
ever, he was now made to wash his small hands, and
to clean his small nails — which were shockingly
bitten — and to blow his small nose with a decent
care, and to walk without trying to hop like a frog
as he went to the church with Christophe on Sundays.
For Marie would have her sons weU-grounded in
their faith—in such matters she could be conscientious
to sternness.

The Cure did not much like le tout petit Loup who
fidgeted and shuffled his feet without ceasing, and
who made himself sticky with the sucre de pomme
which was always slyly concealed on his person.
Moreover, if le tout petit Loup looked annoyed, as he
firequently did when the Cur6 asked him questions,
Christophe had a habit of producing toys — little
figures of beasts and birds carved by Anfos; and unless
the subject should chance to be the ark, these toys
would be quite out of place in the lesson. However,
they would cheer up le tout petit Loup, and when
Christophe was remonstrated with by the Cure, he
would ^ways reply in much the same vein: T have
brought them in order to stop him crying.’ So the
Cure must make the best of the thing by reminding
his pupils of the Creation. But once he had said:
‘And God created great whales,’ which had so much
excited le tout petit Loup that instead of allowing the
matter to drop he had promptly demanded to be told
all about them. No, the Cur^ did not like this wisp of

70

a creature whom he had baptized in the middle of the
night lest his soul should decide to set out for limbo.

It was Jan who had quickly become his favourite,
and for whom he now felt that deep human affection
— the rather pathetic affection of a man who must love
a child, himself being childless. And although he took
an interest in Christophe, perhaps because it was hard
to divide them — for these cousins were very seldom
apart — it was Jan who had stirred an old fire of
ambition which the Cure had fancied must long be
extinguished; only now this ambition was centred in
Jan, who his mother had decided should enter the
priesthood.

Oh, but she was hard to endure, Madame Roustan,
for ever tormenting the Cure with her questions, for
ever w an tin g to know this or that in regard to the
clerical education; for ever pumping the imhappy
man about his influential relations.

‘Madame, I see none of them;’ he might say, ‘I
assure you they have quite forgotten my existence.’

But Madame Roustan, who leamt many t^gs, had
learnt among others that his cousin was a bishop, and
could thus be extremely useful to Jan when he, in his
turn, should become a Cure, so that now she haunted
the presbytery on the slenderest pretext in ^d out of
season. Moreover, she was one of those penitents who
enjoyed a long and detailed confession, keeping the
Cure shut up in his box with his ear to the grille
while her most deadly sins would boil down to gossip
or over-eating — even Goundran had ceased to provide
a relief, for now she had given up all hope of mating.
The Cure had tried many grades of penance, firom five
Our Fathers and five Hail Marys to the rosary, told
firom first to last bead, three times in fi-ont of Saint
Loup’s privileged altar. But neither bruised knees,
nor the privileged altar, nor the sorely tried s a int
who must stand above it, seemed able to damp

71

Madame Roustan’s desire to talk over herself when she
went to confession, more especially these days when,
thanks to her son, she felt that she had every right to
attention.

The Cure had never suffered bores gladly, indeed
even after the years at Saint Loup had sucked the
vitality out of his spirit, he still preferred a good
honest sinner; for although such an one might slide
down into Hell, he might, given a helpful push, slip
into Heaven. Yet Madame Roustan he tolerated with
a patience which sprang from that great affection
which he had conceived for this woman’s son, and
from his hopes of the boy’s brilliant future. For young
though Jan was, and over-impetuous — being a child
of a proud and high temper — he already seemed
greatly drawn to the Church, and would speak of the
time when he should enter the priesthood as though
his career were a foregone conclusion.

‘When I shall become a priest . . .’he would say;
and then he would start to talk of the heathen, and of
how he would go in a ship like Saint Paul and perhaps
get shipwrecked, or thrown into gaol; for he read very
well considering his age, and Saint Paul had stirred
his imagination. The Cure was no fool, and he
realized that the Saint had but ousted Robinson
Crusoe, and that all this fine talk about shipwrecks
and gaols sprang in part from a youthful desire for
adventoe. Yet he thought that he discerned, deep
down in this child, that subtle but unmistakable urge
which compels certain men to serve only the Spirit.
The Cure was pondering these things now, at a time
when he should have been writing his sermon.

Presently he started to compare Jan with Christophe
— in nearly evei^ respect they seemed to differ. Jan
was dark and wiry, having aquiline features, black
eyes, and quick, rather impulsive movements. Chris¬
tophe was a red-haired little boy who moved with a
72

certain deliberation, and whose features might one
day grow to be rugged. There was nothing remarkable
about him save his eyes —the pale eyes that were
set so far apart that his father had laughed when he
was a baby. But now there were times when the
expression of those eyes would suddenly rivet the
Cure’s attention; for into them there would creep a
great wisdom, together with a great and most compre¬
hending kindness. The Cure would feel a little non¬
plussed at seeing so strange a thing in a boy who
appeared to be much as were other children. For
despite his rather deliberate movements, his queer
eyes, and a slow and thoughtful way which he not
infrequently had of speaking, Christophe was by no
means an exemplary child, indeed he was more in
than out of mischief. He and Jan made a practice of
combining forces, as, for instance, when they vivisected
the watch left to Jouse by his maternal grandfather;
and again, when, having learnt of the existence of
snow, they ripped open Marie’s best feather piUows.
And the worst of it was that le tout petit Loup must
insist upon trying to emulate them, which would
always end in much the same manner — le tout petit
Loup would have a pain in his stomach; for whenever
he got excited or tired, he invariably suffered from
indigestion.

The Cure’s thoughts continued to run on, now
amused and now tinged with an inevitable sadness, for
this very faith which he centred in Jan did but show
him more clearly his own complete failure. All
that this boy would become he might have been, had
he only chosen the path of the fighter. As a priest
he had made scarcely any impression, as a student
he was almost equally useless for his wisdom was
sterile; he could not create and thus pass on the bright
torch of knowledge. If he died not a soul in his jjarish
would mourn him except perhaps the ambitious

73

Madame Roustan, for Jan was as yet very young to
feel grief for an ageing man who had been his teacher.
His depression deepened; it became like a mist that
was blurring his mental and spiritual vision, and he
dreaded these moods of despondency which of late
had begun to obsess him so often; for these moods
were always allied with fear —the fear of one day
becoming too lonely.

Then — and who can explain the workings of the
mind, or fathom the depths from which thoughts
assail us? — he suddenly remembered Christophe’s
eyes in which there was so much wisdom and kindness.

‘Why am I thinking about Christophe’s eyes? I am
growing childish,’ he told himself sternly.

But now he seemed unable to avoid those eyes:
wherever he looked he fancied that he saw them, and
when he covered his face with his hands they were
there, still seen by some inward vision. He got up
and began to pace the room, for he felt an irresistible
restlessness which was less of the body than of the
spirit. Pausing in front of his crucifix he stared at the
clumsily moulded Christ —so grotesque, so lacking
in dignity, a machine-made thing devoid of all
feeling. And because he perceived its unworthiness,
he was filled with a sense of deep shame and pity.

Then he spoke to his Lord: ‘Once they fashioned
You gently from the wood upon which You purchased
our salvation; very gravely and gently they worked
with their hands, lest they err in depicting Your
sacred body; or they carved You from flawless ivory;
or they moulded You out of the purest gold, which to
them seemed too base and impure a metal. But this
is a callous and idle .age in wMch I have surely been
the most callous. And idle I have been, sitting down in
the sun, neglecting Your work and forgetting Your
mission, content to consider myself a wise man because,
of my books, whereas I know nothing. But listen; I

74

nay yet come to serve You well by helping another to
JO forth and serve You. In him You shall find all
hat You have missed in me Your unfaithful priest
ind servant. He is young, very young, but already he
s brave, and of him I v^l make a courageous Gtos-
ian. And his name is ... his name is . . .’ He
uddenly faltered, pressing his hand to his aching
brehead in bewilderment, for he could not speak the
lame. ‘Lord, I am grown very stupid;’ he muttered.

75

Chapter vi

S AINT Loup with its inexhaustible sunshine, its
port, its wooded hills, and its beach with the safe
and very excellent bathing, was a happy and pleasant
place for children. Their school over, Christophe
and Jan would set forth side by side on a voyage of
discovery, since now that they possessed strong and
active legs they were finding the world a constant
adventure.

And true it was that those sun-warmed hillsides
teemed with a host of exciting creatures, for there
the large ants filed into their castles, or marched out
upon gravely contrived expeditions; and there the
lizards streaked through the rocks; and there the
slow-moving, knightly beetles displayed the bronze
and green of their armour. But there also, the cou-
leuvres — those innocuous snakes which are yet of
such disconcerting proportions — were for ever giving
themselves away by their rustlings and wrigglings
and lengthy uncoilings; or, worse still, by heaving
across the paths — the couleuvres are most unintelli¬
gent reptiles.

Despite their deep and enduring affection, the
cousins would not infrequently quarrel, for Jan
always wanted to take the lead and when opposed he
would lose his temper; but their bitterest source of
disagreement, at this time, undoubtedly lay in the
couleuvres. Jan possessed a boy’s hot instinct to kill,

76

that primitive and incomprehensible instinct which
occasionally springs from a great joy of living, he
was always hitting at the snakes with a stick, and as
often as not he would leave them sore stricken. But
Christophe would try to snatch the stick from him,
for he could not endure to see dumb creatures suSer;
then a struggle would ensue, perhaps even a fight,
both the children being extremely tenacious.

Yet Christophe would sometimes try to reason with
Jan: ‘They have never harmed us —why must you
torment them?’

Jan would usually answer in much the same words:
‘All serpents are wicked and belong to the devil. A
serpent tempted Adam and Eve; the Cure has taught
us that from the Bible.’

So Christophe must tell his cousin about pain,
which he seemed to divine as by intuition, while Jan
listened without understanding his words, unable as
yet to envisage suffering. But one evening as Jan
struck hard at a couleuvre which his sharp young
ear^ had detected in a thicket, Christophe suddenly
flinched and sprang away:

‘Stop, stop!’ he screamed, ‘You are hurting my
shoulders. . . .’

Jan ran to him: ‘How have I hurt you — but how?
You know very well that I have not touched you!
Christophe, tell me quickly what I have done? I
would never, never hit you with a stick. . . .’ and he
looked as though he were going to cry, ‘tell me how I
have hurt you, Christophe;’ he pleaded.

Very slowly Christophe pulled off his jersey, and
there on his back was a long, red wheal. Jan stared
at it, terrified and amazed — then, even while he stood
staring, it faded. The rest of that walk was very
silent; indeed there was little enough to say, since the
thing transcended their comprehension; but Jan kept
a tight hold of Christophe’s hand, as though suddenly

77

fearful that he might lose him. Thus they passed
through the thicket and out beyond, their eyes
puzzled, their hearts full of an undefined dread, their
childish faces pale in the twilight. Yet when they at
last returned to their homes, neither of the boys spoke
of what had occurred — for some inexplicable reason
they were silent.

After this Jan left the couleuvres in peace, turning
firmly aside from the fi-equent temptation of their
innocent but foolhardy coils, though he still remained
secretly of the opinion that the coideuvres, like all the
rest of their kind, were sinful, being closely allied to
Satan.

§2

Le tout petit Loup was growing more and more
aggressive, making up by the surprising strength of
his will for what he lacked of strength in his body.
He was now never willing to be left out of things,
but must always be taken upon every excursion.
Thus if Christophe and Jan went down to the beach
and paddled, as they did on half holidays, le tout
petit Loup would also paddle although he was for¬
bidden to go near the water. If they went to the port
to meet certain school-jftiends who had recently made
up their minds to be pirates, le tout petit Loup would
join in the m^ee and would usually get himself hurt
in the process. If they went for a walk on the neigh¬
bouring hiUs, le tout petit Loup must make one of the
party although he would quickly begin to wilt,
and would end by getting a pain in his stomach.

‘I have a hot ache in my middle,’ he would say;
then as likely as not would squat down in the dust
if nothing more propitious chanced to be handy.

Jan would grumble: Tt all comes of your being
such a baby. You spoil everything, why caimot you
stay with your mother?’

78

But at this le tout petit Loup would grow enraged:
I am nearly as old as you are,’ he would splutter,
and moreover it is only that I hate this walk which is
;tupid — that is why I have an ache in my middle.’
\fter which he might suddenly burst into tears, half
)f anger but certaijaly half of exhaustion.

Then Christophe would heave a large, tolerant
igh, for although he and Loup had nothing in
:ommon he was usually patient with this ailing
jrother: Tf you will now try to walk on and stop crying,
mu shall have a fine present,’ he might start to bribe,
perhaps even my wooden bear made by Anfos.’

But one day le tout petit Loup replied promptly:
I will cry and wiU have your wooden bear also.’
lor he had the acquisitive instinct of the weak, who
n sheer self-defence must take all and give nothing.

Christophe laughed: ‘Very well, but then you
nust cry a long time —you must cry until we get
lome!’

Whereupon le tout petit Loup ceased to cry: ‘I
vill nevertheless have your bear,’ he mumbled.

Dear God, but he was a contrary child with his
ace and his eyes of a sick marmoset, with his rickety
imbs and his stubborn temper. His scant brown hair
tuck out in a wisp for the reason that it could not
)e properly trimmed, so loudly would he yell at the
ouch of the scissors; while his clothes always looked
listurbingly loose, so thin was the body that he had
o put in them. Marie spoilt him because he still
emained fragile, because as an infant she had
o nearly lost him, and because she had named him
ifter Saint Loup. None of which were entirely
tdequate reasons for condoning her younger son’s
ndless whims, but then as she sometimes remarked
o her husband; ‘You are only his father, whereas

am his mother.’ And since there was no gainsaying
his fact, J6us^ must shake his large head and fall

79

silent. He and Anfos would stolidly go on with
their work while le tout petit Loup stamped and
howled in fury because he was forbidden to play with
the saw or indulge in some equally dangerous pas¬
time. And each might be thinUng as he bent to his
task: ‘I have Christophe, therefore what does anything
matter?’ At least this might very well be Jouse’s
thought —poor Anfos could not always think quite
so clearly.

And yet despite his innumerable faults, le tout
petit Loup was rather pathetic, so hard did he strive
after physical strength, so much did he wish to be
strong like his brother. And his will to battle a weak
way through life, his instinctive fear of getting pushed
under, would suddenly impress Christophe’s youthful
mind so that he had moments of real understanding.
When this happened he would play with le tout
petit Loup, being careful to allow him to do all the
winning, being careful to appear very greatly annoyed
at le tout petit Loup’s repeated triumphs. And
sometimes this succeeded but sometimes it did not,
for le tout petit Loup had the brain of a gimlet, and
if he suspected the subterfuge he would cry and work
himself into a fever. Then Marie might turn to her
elder son and start rebuking him almost sharply; but
he would not resent it, because on the whole he was
little given to feeling resentment, and because when
he looked at her anxious face there would come one
of those moments of understanding.

§3

_Nert to Jan, Christophe loved Mirao, the bitch,
who followed him about like a gaunt, limping shadow.
She was ageing, and now at the times of great heat
she would get many sores on her poor troubled body,
and no one attempted to cure these sores, which greatly
distressed and bewildered Christophe. He would

8o

ratch her with an anxious and pitiful concern as she
iirned her head stiffly, trying to lick them; and then
e would touch his father’s arm:

‘Look, she is very unhappy,’ he would say, and
/ould wait for some reassuring answer.

Jous^ might wipe the sweat from his brow and
runt, because his own back was aching: ‘Do not
/orry me now — run away, little son. I must hurry
ayself and finish this cupboard.’ For although a
pod man and kind on the whole, he had two young
hildren dependent upon him and money was not
Iways easy to come by — there was certainly none
0 spare for MirHo.

Then Christophe would wander across to Anfos:

‘Look,’ he would say, ‘she is very unhappy.’

But Anfos might not even glance at the bitch, for
vhat could he do who himself wsis half child? ‘I will
nake you a horse upon wheels,’ he had promised one
norning, by way of consolation.

Finally Christophe would seek out his mother
vhere she bent above her stove in the kitchen:
MirHo is very unhappy,’ he would say, ‘she has
jlaces that bleed all over her skin. Cannot you
jive me some ointment for her, the sort that you
jut on my knees when I scrape them?’

But Marie would sigh and would shake her head:
Enfantounet, the chemist has still to be paid. Poor
WEireio, ai! las, is no longer young, and when we are
)ld we must frequently suffer.’ And then she would
JO on stirring the soup, or whatever it was that she
:hanced to be making.

At last Christophe spoke to the Cure one Sunday
ifter the usual religious instruction: ‘Mon p^re,
jur Mir ein is growing old and so she has many sores
m her body —she tries hard to lick them but her
;ongue seems too short. I would like you to tell me,
Dlease, how I can heal them.’

F

8i

The Cure nodded: ‘Most dogs in these parts
get sores on their bodies sooner or later, the poor
beasts ... I fear there is nothing to be done. Here is
your book, and I hope by next Sunday that you will
have learnt your catechism.’

But Christophe persisted: ‘I think she feels pain.
Sometimes I can hear her crying all night, and I
do not like to hear Mireio crying.’

‘Yet she probably suifers much less than you think,
animals cannot feel pain as we do.’ And the Cure
started to turn away, for by now his spiritual restless¬
ness was passing. He had asked that Anfos should
carve him a Christ in fine wood to be nailed to an
ebony cross, and when this was completed it would
hang in his study, a more worthy presentment
no doubt than the last —but the Cure’s spiritual
restlessness was passing.

Christophe eyed him very gravely for a moment,
and when next he spoke his words puzzled his teacher:
‘I know there is something I could do with my hands
that would help her ... It is something I could do
with my hands . . . only ... I cannot think the
thought.’

‘What thought?’ the Cure enquired, loo king round.

But now it was Christophe’s turn to be puzzled:
‘That I cannot tell you . . .’ he answered dully.

When they had finally left the church, Jan frowned
at his cousin and started to reproach him: ‘You
ought not to have troubled Monsieur le Cure with
those stupid questions about Mireio. He will think
you an imbecile if you continue to make all this
fuss about an old dog which when it is dead cannot go
to heaven. And what did you mean about your
hands? It sounded so siUy. . . .’

Christophe said nothing.

82

Chapter vii

§i

D uring that summer two events occurred which
made a deep_ impression upon Christophe — he
became a more intimate friend of the sea, and he went
to visit Goundran’s landlady.

Goundran was very proud of his godson and would
have him a skilful and fearless swimmer, so one glori¬
ous day he towed him well out of his depth while
Christophe hung on to a life-buoy.

Then: ‘Let go, my fine fish and begin to swim!’
And. Christophe, nothing daunted, kicked about
with his legs and paddled with his hands as though
he were a puppy. After this Goundran gave him a
lesson most evenings, unless he should happen to be
away fishing.

Perhaps few things are more satisfying than a
child’s first experience of conquering the water —
although conquering is not quite the right word, for
once understood and thus no longer feared, the water
can be uncommonly friendly, as indeed the sea was
to its new disciple. There it lay in the sunshine, so
smiling and so gentle that the fishermen all but forgot
the mistral, and so buoyant that Christophe bobbed
about like a cork and had some ado to keep his head
down for a moment, and this though he very soon
wished to imitate Goundran and swim under water.
For Christophe was one of those fortunate people
whom the sea adopts at their first real contact, and

%

now he could think about little else, and must always
be urging Jan to prove for himself how extremely
simple a thing was swimming:

‘You have only to move your arms and legs, et
voiR, it is done! Come in deeper and try. If you
learn we can then swim together,’ he kept urging.

But Jan, who was quite a courageous child upon
land, had not been adopted by the sea, and this being
so he instinctively feared it. Sulky, because at a
disadvantage, he would paddle while Christophe
swam near-by to tease him; and, it must be admitted,
while Christophe showed off with a very great deal of
splashing and spluttering:

‘Jan, look —this is how one swims on one’s back!’
Or: ‘Now I will show how I do the crawl!’ And then
he would proceed to lash with his toes and to claw
with his hands which, although it looked fine, would
not get him very much nearer to Goundran.

Then Goundran would laugh: ‘Too much fuss, too
much noise. You are almost as bad as a motor-engine!’

So Christophe would subside into less flashy breast
strokes, and would thereby succeed in making fair
progress.

‘Is it you,’ he shouted to Jan one evening, ‘is it
you who talk of going in a boat like Saint Paul?
Pou! What would happen if the boat turned over?’
For he sometimes grew rather tired of hearing about
all the fine things that his cousin would achieve when
he should set forth to convert the heathen.

Jan hesitated, then he shouted back crossly: ‘Having
faith, I would naturally walk on the water!’

‘So you think yourself finer than Saint Peter!’
mocked Christophe, turning a couple of somersaults.

‘It might well be safer to swim,’ smiled Goundran.

But Jan would not be persuaded, and so in the end
they left him alone to his sulks and his paddling; for
dearly as Christophe loved his fiiend, he had now

84

conceived a great love for the sea and must always be
courting this splendid new friendship which Jan was
too stubborn and too fearful to share, so that all he
could do was to sulk and grow jealous.

§2

One night Goundran took Christophe out fishing
with him, but this was not at all a success, for Chris¬
tophe began to pity the fishes as they knocked off their
scales with their gasping and plunging, so Goundran
must stun as many as he could by beating their heads
on the side of his boot — a proceeding which did not
bring much consolation.

Goundran grumbled: ‘Do not be so foolish, little
godson — they feel nothing at all for they are cold¬
blooded. Segnour Dieu, one would think you were
Saint Anthony who when he by accident caught a fish
must immediately throw it back into the water! It
is well to be seen that he was a saint and so was not
forced to gain his own living!’ For Goundran rather
pitied the creatures himself, which made him feel
irritable with Christophe.

The lad who helped Goundran to sail his boat was
a clumsy fellow who had no imagination. He trod
hard upon one unfortunate victim, slipped and trod
on several more in the slipping; then he cxirsed and
kicked them out of the way.

‘Imbecile! Do not bruise their flesh!’ shouted
Goundran.

Christophe watched the proceedings in miserable
silence, and observing the anxious look on his face,
Goundran paused in his labours and tried to cheer
him:

‘Listen, enfantoimet, what about Jesus who caused
the miraculous draught of fishes?’ For the child was
obviously very near tears.

85

‘I do not believe that He did it,’ said_ Christophe.

Now Goundran, as an earnest parent-in-God, should
by rights have rebuked this doubting of the Scriptures,
but something in Christophe’s bewildered eyes made
him sorry for the boy, and so he was silent.

He thought: ‘He is only as yet very small... I am
certain our Lord will not feel offended.’ Then he
thumped a whiting very hard on the boards in a crude
but well-meant endeavour to stun it.

No, assuredly the fishing was not a success, and
Goundran regretted having brought his godson.

# * #

The next day Christophe could not eat his bouilla¬
baisse, although Marie had prepared it with unusual
care because he and his father so particularly liked it.

‘Are you not well, paure pichounet?’ she enquired of
her elder son anxiously. ‘It is strange to see you refuse
your dinner — I think I had better give you a purge,
for doubtless you felt a little bit sea-sick when Goun¬
dran insisted on taking you fishing.’

Christophe said nothing, and that night he drank
his purge, preferring to swallow the noxious potion
rather than to tell the real cause of his trouble, for he
felt very doubtful of his mother’s understanding. And
after a while the trouble passed away, so that he
could once more enjoy bouillabaisse, since at seven
years old but few troubles are lasting. But he never
went fishing with Goundran again, nor did Goundran
attempt to urge him to do so.

§3

Mathilde who, if rumour had been correct, must
long ago have gone to her grave, was actually in her
ninetieth year when she asked abruptly one day to see
Christophe. '

86

‘Bring me the B^nedit’s elder son,’ she demanded,
‘I would know him before I die — and do not be too
long about it either.’

Goundran glanced at Elise who was soon to be
twenty, and in whose good judgment he placed much
reliance: ‘But why does she want to know Christophe?’
he whispered, ‘She has never until now shown the
slightest interest. . .

Elise shook her head: ‘It seems to me strange —
yet I do not think that we ought to oppose her.’

And Goundran agreed, for although it did seem
strange, he greatly respected his landlady’s wisdom.

Wise she most certainly was, the old Mathilde; she
could often divine the secrets of the weather, so that
many a sailor-man asked her advice, especially those
who sailed in the tartanes. Then again, she un¬
doubtedly possessed second sight and could sometimes
see clearly into the future, discerning many things
which would make her feel sad, and others which
would make her feel very happy. And although
Madame Roustan thought her a witch —a belief
which was shared by quite a few people—diere were
those who declared her to be a saint, testifying that
Mathilde had the gift of healing. Goundran thought
her neither a witch nor a saint, but merely a wise and
kindly old woman.

Many years ago she had come to Saint Loup as a
bride from her vftlage in Normandy, where, of course,
there are many miraculous shrines, and where
people have even been known to see fairies. In those
days she had been full-bosomed and tall, a fine §irl,
although no one was left to remember — for Mathilde
by living so unconscionably long, had survived all
the fiiends of her own generation. Her husband, a
saddler, had been dead for years; while her only
brother who had made a late marriage — becoming
the father of but one child, Elise — had lost his wife

87

and had then died also. Thus there was no one
left to recall just how Mathilda had looked at her
wedding, or how she had looked when she had come
to Saint Loup as the youthful bride of a prosperous
saddler.

For some reason she had never returned to the
North, and when Goundran had asked her about
this one morning: ‘Tante MathUde, tell me why you
have stayed on here,’

Mathilda had replied: ‘Because I am waiting.’

And when he had persisted: ‘But for what do you
wait?’ Mathilde, as was sometimes her way, had not
answered.

Well, and so now she wished to know Christophe,
and Elise did not think it wise to oppose her; nor
could Goundran see any reason to refuse:

‘I will certainly bring the boy to you,’ he promised.

§4

Three days later Christophe stood holding Goun-
dran’s hand and staring wide-eyed at the oldest
person that he had yet seen in his short existence — a
person who appeared so incredibly ancient that he
thought she must be the statue of Saint Loup come to
life, and he suddenly felt rather frightened. For the
statue of Saint Loup, which still stands in the church
and is carved out of wood, has time-blurred features,
so that it really does resemble Mathilde as she looked
when she was well over eighty, since all that is old
has a strange resemblance.

Mathilde was sitting in a small wheel-chair, for her
limbs had become intolerably feeble; while her eyes
were even less bright than the saint’s, being heavily
filmed by approaching blindness. Her olive skin,
grown darker with age, had mellowed as had the
venerable oak which Jous^; collected and set such great
88

store by; like it, too, her face was very much worn,
having many deep ruts and undulations. But even
as oak remains polished and clean — a symbol of
courageous and seemly endurance — so the old
Mathilde remained polished and clean, especially
about the region of the cheek bones, and her peasant
cap was whiter than snow, as was also her neat little
muslin apron. Nor was her parlour any less spotless,
for Elise had become an excellent housewife, and
being deeply attached to her aunt she worked all
the harder iDecause of those eyes that were heavily
filmed by approaching blindness.

‘It is what tante Mathilde can no longer see that I
strive to make shine,’ she had once told Goimdran.

And now Goundran said, pushing Christophe
forward: ‘Here is the Benedit’s elder son; I have
brought him to you, ma tante, as I promised.’

Mathilde turned herself in the child’s direction:
‘Come to me, little Christophe,’ she called very gently.

But her voice sounded muted and far away as is
sometimes the case with the voices of old people.
And because it feU strangely upon his ears, which
being so youthful were unaccustomed, Christophe
looked round in search of Goundran, for now once
again he was feeling rather fiightened.

Then Mathilde held out a thin, questioning hand:
‘Where are you, Christophe? I am nearly blind, so
unless you will come I shall never find you.’

He answered: ‘I am coming;’ and he went to her
side, forgetting his fear through compassion for her
blindness.

She peered into his face, then she touched his
cropped head, and her hand felt cold as though it
were lifeless: ‘Very little you are . . , very little and
young to begin such a journey as yours,’ she munnured.
‘But when you are come to the end of the journey
remember me, Christophe Benedit. . . .’

89

He gazed at her not understanding her words, and
being too shy to answer, he nodded.

When she stopped speaking the room grew very
still; neither Elise nor Goundran moved — for some
reason they were loth to break that stillness. Once
only did Goundran glance across at the girl with a
slightly anxious look of enquiry. Then an unexpected
and disturbing thing happened; two large tears
welled up in Mathilde’s dim eyes and, overflowing,
splashed onto her apron.

Seeing this, Elise went quickly to her chair: ‘Why
are you weeping?’ she asked her kindly.

And Goundran called Christophe: ‘Enfantounet,
come here!’ For he thought that their visit had proved
too tiring. ‘She is old, very old,’ he explained in a low
voice, ‘and sometimes the old may resemble young
children, so that they cry when they are fatigued. Now
stand still for a little until she is rested.’

But Mathilde said slowly: ‘I am weeping for joy
. . . there is so little difference between joy and
sorrow; like everything else they are intertwined
. . . the bright light that brings with it the deepest
shadow . . . there is so little difference, yet I cannot
explain . . . .’

‘Do not worry yourself any more,’ Goundran
soothed her, ‘And now I think that Elise shall fetch
wine and c^es, for I seem to remember that Chris¬
tophe is as fond of sweet things as his greedy god¬
father!’_

So Elise went and fetched two dishes of cakes —
pink and white heart-shaped cakes of her own special
baking. And a bottle of wine she set upon the table,
then proceeded to pour out the wine for Goundran;
and when she had done this she handed him the glass
together with a small, pink, sugary heart — very
beautifully iced, very skilfully fashioned.

‘Let us drink to our Christophe here;’ he said

90

smiling. ‘I drank to him at his baptismal feast — yes,
I drank to his becoming a fisherman — and now he
would like me to throw back all my fishes. Is that
not so, little foolish one? Perhaps you believe that
the fishes are Christians!’

But Christophe was feeling pleasantly hungry,
and the pink and white hearts were very allming,
so that while he had not forgotten the fishes he was
frankly engrossed by the needs of his stomach. He
helped himself to a cake, then a second, then a third,
for they seemed to melt in his mouth and be no more
there when he wanted to taste them; and because the
icing was both sticky and soft he quite imashamedly
licked his fingers. Presently Elise made him sit on her
lap where he felt very restless and rather embarrassed,
for she would keep breathing against his neck, and
her breath was not only hot but it tickled. However,
he endured it patiently, for he was a patient child by
natiure. Then Elise began dodging first this way then
that as she tried to see Goundran over his shoulder,
and once she pressed his head down on her breast in
order to get it out of the way ....

‘If only she would let me stand up!’ thought
Christophe.

Yet he liked Elise who was firiendly and young, and
whose cheeks were as pink and white as the hearts of
which, by now, he had eaten a great many. She had
hair so blonde that it reminded him of moonlight,
and small even teeth which he thought very pretty,
and whenever she spoke to Goundran she snuled —
although perched on her knee Christophe could not
see this — and whenever Goundran spoke to her she
blushed, and her arm would suddenly tighten round
Christophe.

He was speaking to her now: ‘It is pleasant to see
you with a child on your lap; but, my httle Elise, it is
time that you had a son of your own, it is time that we

91

found you a suitable husband. Indeed I have just the
right fellow in my mind — a captain he is, although
still quite young — he comes from Marseille and his
name is Bertrand. In any case I shall bring him along
so that you and your aunt may look him over. At
your wedding I, of course, will be the best man; and
if I am lucky and catch many fish I will surely provide
you with excellent wine. Ah, yes, it is time that we
thought of your wedding.’ For Goundran was a lover
and lord of the sea, and appeared to be little attracted
by women.

Elise allowed Christophe to stand up at last; then
she sighed as she looked at the heart-shaped cakes
which she had so skilfully fashioned that morning.
And Christophe was puzzled when he heard her deep
sigh, wondering if EHse were still feeling hungry, for
at times he was very much a child, quite untroubled
by flashes of understanding.

He said poHtely: ‘Will you eat another cake?’ and
he passed her the plate feeling suddenly hopeful.
Nor was he to be disappointed in his hope, for al¬
though Elise shook her head rather sadly, she urged
him to finish the rest of the hearts, which he did to
the great amusement of Goundran.

‘You wfll surely be terribly sick,’ Goundran
warned him, ‘but what matter? Elise’s sweetmeats
are well worth it.’ Then he turned to the girl with his
innocent smile: ‘You become a most excellent cook,’
he told her.

Away in her corner the old Mathilde slept, and her
head now drooped limply onto her bosom: ‘La
pauvre,’ sighed Elise, ‘she grows terribly old, that is
why she wept as she did over Christophe; her mind
wanders at times, it was doubtless that — or perhaps
she feels sad when a child is near, because she herself
never had any children.’

92

On the way home Christophe gravely remarked:
‘When I have come to the end of my journey I am
going to think hard about tante Mathilde, and this I
shall do because it will please her, and because she
so much resembles Saint Loup in our church — except
that she wears a cap instead of a pointed hat on her
head . . Then he suddenly caught hold of Goun-
dran’s sleeve: ‘But what did she mean about a
journey?’

Goundran looked vague: ‘Who knows? Who can
say? She is nearly ninety and at her age one dreams,
which I do not doubt is God’s merciful kindness.’

9 S

Chapter viii

§i

I F Mathilda had expressed an unexpected desire to
know the Benedit’s elder son, something happened
during the autumn which was, in a way, quite as
unexpected — Eusebe, of all people, made friendly
advances not only to Ghristophe but to his brother.

ffitherto, if a child had peered into his workshop,
fascinated by the large, tempting strips of leather,
Eusebe had looked up with a furious eye: ‘Sarnipa-
bieune! Be off!’ he had shouted, and other very
inhospitable things; from which it had been gathered
that he did not like children.

Yet when Ghristophe and Loup had stood gaping
one morning, yes, and actually fingering his precious
leather, Eusebe had wagged his head at them and
grinned: ‘Eh bien? Why not come right inside and
look closer?’ Nothing loth, they had taken him at his
word, and when next they had visited the shop Jan
had joined them.

Jouse thought that the welcome accorded his off-
spririg was a trap very skilfully laid to catch Jan, and
this in order to anger his mother. For now more than
ever did Madame Roustan disapprove of the unre¬
generate Eusebe, and now more than ever did
Eusebe despise and detest the self-righteous Madame
Roustan — indeed, he could never open his mouth in
her presence these days without trying to shock her.
Jouse confided his suspicion to his wife: ‘H6u, the

94

old fox, he is certainly crafty! Where our Ghristophe
goes there his cousin will go, and Germaine is con¬
suming herself with fury. “Is it proper,” she comes
here and says to me, “is it proper that my son who will
be a priest should associate with that spawn of the
devil?” And I answer: “Mais oui, it is excellent
practice; what are priests for but to combat the devil?”
Then she grows still more angry, and accuses us of
neglecting the spiritual welfare of our children. Eha,
I permit her to say many things, for a man cannot
quarrel with his own flesh and blood, and in any case
what does her foolishness matter?’

But Marie was not quite so easy in her mind, for
she also had been visited by Madame Roustan: Tt
must be admitted,’ she said doubtfully, ‘that Eusebe
is more often drunk than sober — I would rather
that our sons kept out of his shop. . . .’

‘Yet I do not think he will harm them;’ smiled
Jous^.

However, it soon became only too apparent that
whether Eusebe would harm them or not, he possessed
an irresistible fascination, especially for le tout petit
Loup to whom he presented odds and ends of Mde,
rusty buckles, boot buttons, and isirrular rubbish. In
vain did Marie try to persuade her sons that Eusebe
was both hideous and dirty; in vain did Madame
Roustan protest that unless Jan kept away firom the
man, she would feel it her duty to speak to the Cure.
It was all of not the slightest avail, so great was
Eus^ibe’s charm for the cMdren. And the most dis¬
concerting part of it was this: Eusfebe now developed
an imagination, evolving all sorts of amusing schemes
wherewith to add glamour to the children’s visits.
Thus one fine and salubrious autumn evening, he
tempted the three of them away firom the beach —
although Ghristophe had fully intended to bathe —
by describing the grapes in his dead wife’s vineyards.

95

‘Let us go and have a look,’ he remarked crafdly,
‘and when we have looked long enough we might
eat them!’

So off they all went with never so much as a word to
Marie or Madame Roustan; le tout petit Loup step¬
ping out like a man and not once complaining of a
pain in his stomach, while Jan and Christophe
skipped about like young goats or ran races in order
to feel the more hungry.

The vineyards were a sight to rejoice sore eyes — at
least this was true of Eusebe’s vineyards, for his vines
were so heavily fructified that they bowed themselves
down to the earth with their burden. In and out of the
narrow green paths the four wandered, while Eusebe
told the story of Bacchus who had loved such clusters
of opulent fruit, and had taken them under his special
protection.

‘There were ladies who brought him his wine,’ said
Eusebe; ‘they were not at all like the ladies we know—
although many of these are certainly pretty — but the
ladies who brought Bacchus his marvellous wine were
called nymphs because they were more than human;
and so beautiful they were that people went blind if
by accident they should happen to see them. Yes,
nymphs they were called, and they much liked sweet
things, so that those who were wise always left them
honey.’

‘But where did they leave it?’ demanded Loup,
who in spite of his weak digestion was greedy.

‘Sometimes under the vines, sometimes under a
tree — or perhaps they would set it upon a flat rock
and then turn their backs quickly,’ Eusebe told him.

Then he went on to say that a long time ago many
gods had been served in the land of Provence, and
that even yet one might find a few stones which had
once formed a part of some vast white temple; and
that in the town of his birth, which was Arles, there

96

were ruins to remind one of the great pagan builders
— an arena so large that its generous girth could
en(^ompass twenty-six thousand people. And he
muttered, as though he were thinking aloud: ‘Those
were surely magnificent days to live in!’

The children listened wide-eyed and enthralled; and
after awhile he cut bunches of grapes, being careful to
select only such as were sweet — for not aU the wine-
grapes are sweet when eaten. And these they earned
up to a farm which they learnt belonged to Eus^be
also; and the farmer’s wife brought them milk and
rough bread — the honest rough bread that is baked
by the peasants. Then they feasted while Eusebe
dr ank two tumblers of wine, but no more, since he
wished to arrive home sober.

Naturally Marie was extremely anxious and natur¬
ally Madame Roustan was angry, for the new moon
had risen above the hills before the children returned
to their parents. Nor were matters improved by le
tout petit Loup who announced at supper as he
sipped his vin coupe, that both he and his name had
been changed by the nymphs, so that now he was no
longer Loup but Bacchus.

§2

This story of Bacchus and his honey-loving nymphs
was only the beginning of many other stories which,
although they were less educational perhaps, were
quite frequently very much more exciting. Eusebe
knew a host of Provencal legends, most of which the
children would find hair-raising — especially when
they were told at dusk in the dim little shop with its
arched stone ceiling. Squatting on the floor.among
clippings of hide, with his three small guests gathered
breathlessly round him, Eusebe would tell of that
terrible lair the Recatadou di Rato-Penado, wherein

97

o

there lurked monstrous armies of bats who, when
thirsty, consumed human blood by the gallon. There
was also the Baruno de la Masco Taven, the abode of a
yellow-eyed sorceress whose speUs were particularly
unpleasant. And an imp there was who stuck pins
in your pillow — points upward of course — and who
lived by himself in a place with a very high-sounding
name: Lou Corredou de I’Esperit Fantasti! But what
about the haunt of the grisly nightm^e, the horrid
Cafoumo de la Ghaucho Viejo? This indeed was a
spot it were best to avoid, lest the rdghtmare leap out
and start to pursue you; nor must you mention
its name after dark, lest the nightmare come in at your
bedroom window! And then there was the Pas de
I’Agneu Negre, that hoof print of the little black lamb
of Satan — it was not a great distance from the Oulo
di Set Cat where the seven unholy felines made
merry. And if you should chance to be off your guard,
you might find yourself drowning in the Gourgareu
Infemau, which, Eusfebe explained, was an aqueduct
of hell, and so placed that it constantly trapped pious
Christians.

Eusebe’s blue-white eye that was blind, would
appear to gleam luminously through the shadows, as
though it were possessed of latent sight, seeing much
that was hidden away from its fellow; while his voice,
which vibrated all over the room, would seeih to call
forth an uncanny echo.

‘Hei!’ he woidd exclaim, ‘There are wonderful
things to be found everywhere in our land of Provence!’

Then Christophe would move a little nearer to
Jan, and Jan wotdd move a little nearer to Christophe,
and Loup would move a little nearer to them both,
so that in the end they would be huddled together;
while the hutumn dusk would abruptly give place to
the uncompromising southern nightfall. Eusebe would
light his malodorous lamp which but served to accen-

98

tuate the black shadows; after which the children
must get up and go home, for the lamp always meant
the end of the stories.

Once out in the street Jan would talk very bravely:
‘I do not believe in the Rato-Penado; and I do not
believe in that sorceress, or in anything else Eusebe
has told us. And if I did believe I should not be afraid

— I would merely sprinkle much holy water!’ Yes,
but then he might add: ‘Christophe, come back with
me — let us do our lessons together this evening . . .’
For in spite of his faith the long street to the port would
seem uncommonly dark and lonely.

Sometimes Christophe would go with him, but at
other times he would lack the courage for his own
return journey. Yet they always begged for more
legends and more, so thrillmg a story-teller was Eusebe.

§3

Marie very soon heard about what was happening

— indeed she could not well do otherwise, for le tout
petit Loup woiJd now wake up screaming. But
when she forbade him to go near Eusfebe — and for
her she spoke with comparative sternness — le tout
petit Loup made a terrible scene, stamping his foot
and protesting loudly.

‘Je veux, je veux, je veuxV he protested, and such
tempers always upset his digestion.

Jous^, who had much work on hand at the moment,
shrugged his shoulders and appeared to be utterly
helpless. And when Marie tamed to his sister for
help:

‘This is entirely your own faults,’ snapped Madame
Roustan, T warned you not to let your sons know the
old drimkard. Jan would never have known him had
it not been for you — I consider that he has been
led astray by Chnstophel’ After which she flounced

99

out of the Benedit’s house and went off to make her
complaints to the Cure.

The Cure, very bored, and greatly annoyed at being
disturbed in the middle of his reading, promised
vaguely to speak to Eusebe himself, but once back
with his boolb forgot all about it. He was not in the
least uneasy for Jan, who could never, he felt sure, be
harmed by such nonsense.

Bo Marie must do her unaided best by telling her
children kindlier stories, and these she would tell
them on Sunday evenings after they had all returned
from Benediction. She would tell how the tear of the
Magdalene was placed in a golden cup by the angels

— and she bruised in spirit because of her sins, and
because of her penitence bruised in body. And of
how those same angels being filled with compassion,
would gather her into their merciful arms and bear her
away over valleys and hills to a place of infinite peace
and refreshment. And of how there would come many
flocks of wild birds to be blessed by the sainted peni¬
tent sinner, who continued to weep so persistently
that her tears formed a spring of miraculous water.
And then Marie would tell of that wonderful voyage
which the Holy Ones made on their way to Provence

— they had come in a sailless and rudderless ship,
guided always by God’s inscrutable wisdom. The
three Holy Marys-of-the-sea had come, and Maximus
who promptly converted Aix, and Lazarus who
converted Marseille, and the pitiful Joseph of Arima-
thea who had felt such concern for his Saviour’s
body. Aye, and many others had arrived in that
vessel to raise Christ’s cross on the soil of the pagan.
Then one evening she remembered that those saints
had brought with them a devoted female slave, by
name Sara, and that Sara had not been white skinned
but black:

‘Which shows you, my children,’ said Marie gravely,
100

‘that we are all equal in the sight of heaven, for that
faithful black slave is now also sainted.’

But at this le tout petit Loup clapped his hands:
‘And Saint Sara had a lamb,’ he broke in with anima¬
tion, ‘and its coat was quite black to match her skin!’

‘No,’ said Christophe, ‘you are thinking of the little
black lamb that Eusebe told us belonged to Satan!’

There ensued a somewhat heated discussion, for
Loup maintained that their mother had just said that
heaven took no account of colour; and so cross did he
become that he pinched Christophe hard.

‘Ow! Do not do that, it hurts!’ squealed Christophe.

Marie searched her brain quickly in an effort to
provide le tout petit Loup with a counter-attraction,
and she told them about quite another lamb, from
whose fleece had been woven a cloak for Saint Francis.
But she also told of the contrite wolf, that having
merited death as a slayer, had nevertheless been
spared by the saint who had preached it a very
wonderful sermon, explaining God’s merciful fatherly
love and kindness towards all His lesser creatures.

‘So,’ said Marie, ‘the wolf became as faithful as
a dog, and he followed Saint Francis about hke
MirHo.’

She paused, and stared at her elder son in bewilder¬
ment, for Chiistophe was weeping.

‘Ai, ai,’ he wept, ‘why is Saint Francis not here . . .
I want him to come back and heal MirHo . . : I
want him to tell her aU about God! Why have none
of you told her about God’s love?’

‘BHli Santo d’or!’ exclaimed Marie, much dis¬
tressed, ‘Such things cannot happen every day, my
little Christophe!’

He gazed at her out of tearful eyes, while into his
childish and groping mind Aere gradually crept a
miserable conviction: ‘She wfll never feel about poor
MirHo as Saint Francis felt about that wolf. . . but

lOI

why?’ For he could not understand how it came that
his mother who praised the saint for his acts of mercy,
made no effort to ease Mirao’s suffering. No one else
did either, as Christophe well knew, but his mother
seemed different —so tender, so gentle, so anxious
to tell them about Saint Francis. . . .

Then: ‘Such things cannot happen every day,’ she
repeated; as though that were a good and sufficient
explanation.

Yet Christophe was neither convinced nor consoled;
and seeing her son continue to weep, Marie took him
quietly onto her lap and rocked him as though he were
once more a baby.

§4

After this, for quite a number of weeks, Marie told
only fairy tales to the children. Then one Sunday
when Jan came back with them from church, he
started to beg for the legends of the saints, in particular
of those who had suffered as martyrs. But Marie did
not wish her Loup to have nightmares so she would not
discuss Saint Laurence’s gridiron, nor Saint John’s
boiling oil, nor Saint Vitus’s cauldron, nor even Saint
Denis’s strange behaviour.

‘Let us speak of more pleasant things,’ she remarked,
glancing rather apprehensively at Loup, ‘Supposing I
tell you about Christophe’s Patron?’ For although
this good saint was indeed martyrized, that fact does
not enter into his legend.

‘Saint Christophe was a ferryman,’ she began.

But Loup interrupted: ‘Like the man at the port —
the one whose face is all covered with pimples?’

‘Yes — only Saint Christophe had a clear, healthy
skin.’

‘How can one be certain?’ persisted Loup.

‘Because saints never do have pimples,’ said Jan
firmly.

102

Marie began all over again: ‘Saint Christophe was
a ferryman and one stormy evening, just as he was
going to sit down by his fire and was saying to himself:
“Dieu, que ventaras!” — for the mistral was blowing
unbelievably hard — he suddenly heard someone
caUing his name:

‘ “Christophe! Christophe!” someone was calling.

‘Saint Christophe did not want to leave his warm
hut: “Santouno,” he sighed as he thought of the
ferry, “Santouno, who can wish to cross on such a
night? Ai! las . . and he sadly lighted his lantern.
By the brink of the river he perceived a little boy who
was not much bigger than le tout petit Loup — indeed
he was just about the same size: “Can it have been
your small voice?” Christophe asked him.

‘And the child said: “Yes, for although I am small
and the river is in flood I must none the less cross it.
Christophe, I have very much work to do, and there¬
fore I beg you to carry me over.”

‘Good Saint Christophe could scarcely believe his
ears: “But you ought to be tucked up in bed;” he
protested, “te, what can your parents be t hink ing
about?”

‘The child answered: “It was my Father who sent
me.” ,

‘ “And who may your father be?” asked the saint.

‘ “My Father is also your Father, Christophe.”

‘Now the poor little boy was a total stranger, so the
saint thought that he was_ probably sleepy, for when
children are sleepy they will grow confused: “Pichou-
net, you are making a mistake,” he said kindly. But
at this the child gave so profound a sigh that Saint
Christophe lifted him onto his shoulder.

‘Mes enfants, you have heard that the river was
dangerous; all the same, just at first they got on very
nicely, for Christophe was a strong and courageous
man, and he knew what he had to expect firom the

103

mis tral. But after awhile he was greatly alarmed to
find that the water was growing much deeper — so
deep that the flood came up to his chest, and he said to
himself: “Without doubt we are drowning!” Yes,
and not only this, but that very small being — he was
really no bigger than le tout petit Loup — became so
heavy that the saint groaned aloud; never, never
before had he borne such a burden; and with each
step he took the burden grew worse:

‘ “Bono Maire de Dieu! What has happened?”
groaned Ghristophe.

‘Then just when he felt that he could not endure it,
that not one tiny drop of strength was left to him, he
found himself struggling up the far bank and finally
standing quite safe in a meadow: “May the Holy
Sailors be praised!” gasped the saint as he lifted that
terrible weight from his shoulder.

‘He did not know what he expected to see, but all
that he saw was the same little boy who had asked to
be carried across the ferry, and in his amazement
Saint Ghristophe exclaimed: “You should weigh
scarcely anything, enfantounet! How comes it that
I bore so fearful a load?”

‘ “You have borne all the sorrows of the world,” the
child answered. Then suddenly there was no child
any more, and our Lord was standing before Saint
Ghristophe . . . .’

As Marie stopped speaking her eyes filled with tears,
for she loved this simple and beautiful legend. And she
looked at her son who was named for die saint, with
an uprush of pVide and great tenderness:

‘My Ghristophe, come here to me;’ she murmured.

He went, and stood leaning against her arm, while
the other two children sat on in silence.

Then Jous^ and Anfos came lumbering in — they
were both feeling hungry and wanting their suppers.
J6use said: ‘My poor stomach is as empty as a drum-

104

it is getting terribly late, Marioun!’ So Marie pu^ed
Christophe gently away, and went oflF to fetch ed
and wine from the kitchen.

§5

Christophe had been deeply impressed by the
legend, and so for the matter of that, had Jan, yet it
led them both into very grave mischief. Into mischief
so enormous that Madame Roustan could but put the
whole affair down to the devil.

As she afterwards said: ‘He was listening no doubt,
and he always grows spiteful when the dear saints are
mentioned.’

In any case, it certainly appeared largely to be due
to Jan’s pious leanings. He was much addicted to
religious games in which he invariably wished to
play the hero; thus Christophe must be Isaac to Jan’s
Abraham; or Goliath to Jan’s somewhat boastful
David; or a very bored lion that of course must not
bite, to Jan’s complacent and self-righteous Daniel,
so that many a game would begin with a dispute and,
as likely as not, would end with a quarrel. But on the
occasion of the escapade in which Madame Roustan
detetted Satan, Christophe had for once got the
upper hand, and he would not relinquish his rights
without a struggle.

He and Jan together with le tout petit Loup, had
gone down to the beach, Christophe mearung to
bathe in spite of a rough sea owing to the mistral.
But just as he was about to plunge in, Jan had one of
his sudden inspirations.

‘I have thought of a marvellous game;’ he an¬
nounced, ‘I wiU be Saint Christophe and Loup shall
be our Lord. I will paddle and he shall sit on my
shoulder!’

Christophe frowned: ‘Ca non! That I will not

105

allow. Why should you always grab all the fun?’
he asked hotly. ‘To-day, if you please, I will be my
own name, and Loup shall come and sit on my
shoulder!’ And so fierce did he look in this sudden
revolt, with his close-cropped red_ pate, and his fist
doubled up in angry defence of his baptismal privi¬
lege, that Jan unexpectedly gave way:

‘Eh bien — if you wish you shall be Saint
Ghristophe; but afterwards I shall be John the Bap¬
tist!’ And he marched off in search of le tout petit
Loup who, standing a little apart, had been listening.

However, they had reckoned without their host,
for in spite of his will to emulate them, le tout petit
Loup now stiffened his legs and dug his toes into the
sand quite firmly. He mistrusted the truculent look
of the sea combined with his brother’s inadequate
proportions, and when Jan tried to lift him he
squealed like a pig, then pinched with his skinny
vindictive fingers.

‘What is wrong?’ enquired Jan, ‘You should feel
very proud; are we not permitting you to be our
Lord? Stop pinching at once, and do as I tell you.
You are always wanting to take part in our games,
very well, you are going to take part in this one!’

Then le tout petit Loup asserted himself: ‘I will mt
be our Lord;’ he announced with decision, ‘I wish
to remain le tout petit Loup, and moreover I wish to
remain on the beach — I have got a hot ache in my
middle,’ he concluded.

Now the only excuse to be offered for Ghristophe
is that he had played second fiddle so long that he
naturally clrmg to his present advantage, and yet
Jan would be far too heavy to carry . . .

‘Gatch hold of him;’ he ordered, ‘allons, vite, vite!’
and before le tout petit Loup could say ‘kiiife,’ he was
being hiked into hiis perilous position.

His weak arms went desperately round Christophe’s
io6

neck and his legs round his waist; he was terribly
frightened. And this Christophe well knew, yet he
straightened his back and proceeded to wade grandly
into the water.

‘Do not be afraid, you are quite safe,’ he bragged,
‘Gan you not feel the great strength of my muscles?’

Jan followed them in, but not very far, although he
was now intensely excited —so excited that he had
forgotten to sulk, and must spur Christophe on to
yet greater prowess.

‘You are only just up to your knees,’ he shouted,
‘whereas the saint was right up to his chest — however,
perhaps you have not got his courage!’

Le tout petit Loup said nothing at all, for by now
he was smitten dumb with terror. Had he only
screamed all might yet have been well, but Christophe
was reassured by his silence.

‘I am fighting the flood; I am brave, I am strong;
it is fine that the sea is so rough!’ he told him. Then,
scowling at Jan; ‘If you think me a coward I will
show you!’ and he quickly waded in deeper.

At that moment a wave slapped le tout petit Loup,
and before he had recovered ms breath, came another.
The next second Christophe was out of Ms depth and
found himself swinuning about rather wildly.

‘Loup —Loup!’ he spluttered, ‘Hang on to me,
Loup. It is really all right . . .’ But Loup did not
answer.

It was only by the merest chance that Goimdran
happened to be strolling along the beach at an hour
when the shore was completely deserted, and that
hearing Jan’s ear-splitting yells for help, he realized
in a flash what had happened. Plunging in he dragged
out le tout petit Loup, who although he was certaMy
not unconscious, proceeded to be very terribly sick,
having managed to swallow a lot of salt water;
however, he was left to fend for himself while Goun-

107

dran turned his attention to Ghristophe He found
him swimming against the current, distractedly
trying to find his brother, and so dazed and spent
that he did not realize that Loup had already been
carried to safety.

‘Here, catch hold of my hand. I am still in my
depth and can tow you along — look sharp!’ ordered
Goundran.

* * :ie

A nice party it was, and no mistake, that arrived
all dripping at the Benedit’s house; for even Jan was
wet to the skin, having braved the sea to above his
waist in his anguish at the thought that Ghristophe
was drowning. Goundran was carrying le tout petit
Loup who by now was able to wail quite loudly; and
after him walked the culprits side by side, both
extremely abashed, down-hearted, and silent.

‘Ma Santo-Vierge! What has happened?’ cried
Marie, ‘Ail las, mon tout petit Loup — he is dead!’
And she promptly bxirst into heart-broken tears.

‘The dead do not wail as he wails,’ consoled Goun¬
dran.

Then out of the shop dashed Jouse and Anfos, to be
followed by MirHo who was barking hoarsely. And
Mir^io leapt up and licked Ghristophe’s face, while
Anfos said;

‘God be praised, little master . . . Oh, may God be
praised that I see you are safe!’

But J6us6 looked sternly at the two older boys, the
while he begged Goundran for an explanation.

So Goundran began to explain the misfortune; but
now there came running up Madame Roustan, who
was grown so stout that she panted for breath and was
forced to cling to the arm of her brother. Then she
wished to be informed who had tried to drown Jan,
and why J6us6 was so criminally weak with his
children.

io8

Eusebe scuttled across to the group, clutching in one
hand an unfinished sandal: ‘En voili une jolie affaire!*
he remarked. And turning to Madame Roustan with
a bow: ‘Your dear son was safer, it would seem, in
my vineyards.’

‘Do not speak to me, shameless old man,’ she gasped,
‘I suspect that this misery is largely your doing!’

After this they all started to talk at once, while
Mimo still barked, and le tout petit Loup began to
wail even more dolefully, because of the cramp that
was twisting his entrails. So at last Marie carried him
upstairs to bed and Jous^ bethought himself of the
doctor.

§6

Le tout petit Loup was iU for a month; he was
suffering from shock and acute gastritis. The doctor
informed Aem that a dangerous chill had promptly
attacked his delicate stomach. Jan developed a furious
cold in the head to the great indignation of his anxious
parent, while Goundran and Christophe got off scot
firee — this in spite of drenched clothes and a biting
mistral.

But Christophe was very severely punished by his
usually easy-going father. Every day of that month,
when he got home from school, he was sent to bed in
his tiny attic; and there he must lie supperless and
alone contemplating his serious misdemeanour.
Neither Anfos nor Mirao might pay him a visit
dming those dreary hours of his penance; and when
J6us6 caught Anfos emerging from the larder with a
plateful of titbits for the hungry sinner, he adminis¬
tered a workman-hke box on the ear, for Jduse’s
temper was decidedly short, since in punishing Chris¬
tophe he was punishing Jouse.

All the same, Anfos managed to sneak out at night

IP9

and to stand under Christophe’s small dormer-window.
And sometimes he would whistle the soft double
note wherewith he had used to attract the wild birds
when he lived in that village high up in the mountains;
then Christophe would turn over in his sleep and smile.
But if Jous^ should hear he would grumble to his
wife:

Tecaire, your cousin is indeed half-witted!’

no

Chapter ix

§i

T he follpwing summer Jouse said to Christophe:

It is time that you started to learn your trade,
for although you are only eight years old, early train¬
ing makes the hands grow strong and supple. I think
that I will teach you in the evenings, my son, after
you have finished your school preparation; and some¬
times you must work on half-holidays also, as I had to
do when I was your age and must very often assist my
father.

So^ Christophe began his youthful career by
acquiring a knowledge of the ways of tools, even as
Anfos had done before him.

He did not resent this additional work, indeed
it seemed to him right enough, for many another boy
at ifte school must contribute his share towards
helping his parents, and moreover he rather enjoyed
the small tasks with which he would now find himself
entrusted. At eight years old he was tall for his
age and gave promise of very great physical strength,
so that he cordd hammer away with a will, and could
presently even use a light saw, driving it strongly
through the planks with an accuracy which surprised
his father.

‘Segnour Di6u!’ Jouse would exclaim, delighted.
‘But this is excellent, pichounet — one would think
that you had long been accustomed to the job!’

Then Christophe would flush with pride and
pleasure.

111

And indeed he did show a great aptitude for all
that pertained to his father’s trade, an aptitude at
which he was surprised himself, for now that he had
come into personal touch with the tools and the
honest and patient wood, the tasks which he did
seemed strangely familiar, so that he could work
without undue effort, being filled with a very complete
self-assurance. And Jouse watching his robust little
son, would consider himself to be more than lucky, for
had he not already one excellent apprentice in poor
Anfos whom he had trained out of kindness? And now
here was his own fine flesh and blood bidding fair to
become a skilled carpenter who would carry on the
family tradition — for Jouse came of a long line of
men who had earned their bread through the bounty
of timber. Oh, yes, the good Jouse was well content
these days, and being content he felt pious, so that
he prayed a great deal at Mass and seldom missed
going to Benediction.

Christophe would be kneeling between his parents,
telling his beads with scarred clumsy fingers; ‘Je
vous salue, O Marie pleine de grace, le Seigneur est
avec vous,’ he would whisper, ‘Vous etes benie entre
toutes les femmes, et Jesus le fruit de vos entrailles
est beni.’ And sometimes there would suddenly come
to the child one of his flashes of understanding, so
that he would glimpse in those momentous words the
tragedy and grandeur of God’s incarnation — at
such.moments he would grope for his mother’s hand
without knowing why he desired to hold it. And
presently — if it were Benediction — the triple bell
would ring out through the church while the Cure
raised the Host in its monstrance; then Marie must
glance rather nervously at Loup, always fearful lest
he should shuffle his feet or in some other way show a
lack of attention.

Just across the aisle from the Benedit’s chairs, would

II2

be Madame Roustan beating her breast for the
sins which she had never committed. Beside her
would kneel her only son, and he gazing up at the
Host with eyes that glowed with a sombre light of
anger; for cliild though he still was the sight of the
Host would always remind him of his Saviour’s
wrongs, so that as they walked back to their homes
after church he must open his fierce young heart to
Christophe, inveighing against those who did not
believe as he did, with a vigour amounting to violence.
But the cousins met rather less often these days,
for while Christophe worked in the carpenter’s shop,
Jan was frequently working in the Cure’s study.
The Cure was teaching him the rudiments of Latin and
Greek, having suddenly come to the decision that when
Jan left school at the age of thirteen, he would under¬
take the boy’s entire training for the Grand Sdminaire
and thus save expense, since Madame Roustan was
not blessed with riches.

The Cure Martel had said to himself: ‘Here is a
really promising student; his school reports are excel¬
lent; he has brains, enthusiasm, and courage. But
his mother is poor —it is therefore my duty to do
what I can to help him to the priesthood.’

And while all this was certainly true, the Cure,
who invariably left something out when he tried to
arrive at an accurate reckoning, quite omitted to
acknowledge that paternal urge which drew him to
Jan with so deep an affection — he loved to see the
eager and intelligent child poring over the musty
old books in his study, and he loved to foster in that
combative soul the instincts in which he felt himself
to be lacking.

‘Ah, yes,’ he would say, ‘while we must not fail in
charity —for that would displease our Lord —we
may certainly feel a righteous indignation which
will lead us to fight for our faith and our Church;
H 113

nothing is achieved without enthusiasm!’ And then
he would talk of the warrior-saints, and would go
on to tell of the warlike Crusaders.

Thus it was coming to pass that Jan, who had
been an impetuous and hot-tempered baby, was
grafting his natural dispositions onto his Christianity,
as is not infrequently the way with Christians. He
saw his Lord and the death of his Lord through the
eyes of a childish but eager avenger. And since all
that the Cure now incidcated would fall into line
with the boy’s own instincts, his tuition continued
without a hitch, to the deep satisfaction of himself
and his master. But it must be admitted in fairness
to Jan, that he was a splendidly conscientious pupil.

§2

At about this time the Cure Martel dared to open a
much worn and closely written diary, on nearly every
page of which there occurred a certain name —
Genevieve d’Arlanges. And as the Cure reread his
own words he marvelled to remember his turbulent
passion, to remember how grievously he had suffered,
and he thought:

‘After all, I — yes, even I — have not failed alto¬
gether to serve my Lord.’ Which wa,s surely the truth,
in view of that chary. Then he thought: ‘Genevieve
. . . she must now be quite old.’ And this gave him a
little pang of regret, for even those whom we have
long ceased to love — either from a sense of duty
towards God, or because of the ficddeness of our
bodies — even those whom we have long ceased to
love, we yet wish to protect from the cruelty of age,
although we ourselves may have been no less cruel.
‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘she must now be as old as I am.’

His mind slipped back over the inadequate years
at Saint Loup until he was once more in Paris, a man

114

filled with youthful vitality —an ardent lover, an
ardent Christian. On the one hand stood a girl with
an innocent face and eyes that had never looked upon
sorrow; on the other stood a God with a bleeding
brow and eyes that were heavy and dim with suffering.
And each of these two appeared to be calling —to
be calling to him, the young Antoine Martel, as
though his youth and vitality were to them a thing
of momentous importance, so that he turned now
this way, now that, from suffering to joy, jfrom joy
back to suffering.

The Cur^ Martel remembered long nights spent
half in agonized and self-abased prayer, and half
in agonized yet arrogant longing. And as he fingered
the shabby old book in which he had ventured to
write many things that a riper discretion must
have omitted, he grew lonely and quite illogically
sad because he could no longer feel that anguish.
Going to his table he found pen and paper, then a
cheap envelope which he carefuUy addressed to a
certain Madame la Comtesse de Berac.

‘Chere Genevieve,’ he wrote in his clerical hand,
Tt is now many years since you and I met, but always
I have been your sincere well-wisher, and always I
have remembered you in my prayers, as I hope that
you have remembered me . . .’ The writing paused,
then went on more quickly: ‘But let me come at once
to the point of this letter. Were I going to ask a
favour entirely for myself I should hesitate, since why
should you grant it? It is not entirely for myself that
I ask, it is also for a little boy in this town who I
hope may become a brilliant student. His name is Jan
Roustan; his mother is a widow who runs a humble
drapery business, and he himself was a posthumous
child and has thus never known the love of a father.

‘The excuse for my importunity is this: the boy is
anxious to enter the priesthood, and, as always, we

”5

need good husbandmen to work in God’s often
neglected vineyards. Unless you have very much
changed, dear Genevifeve, you are still a religious and
generous soul who will give of your plenty to those
who have nothing. Therefore, greatly daring, I will
beg of you a gift; in due course Jan mmt go to the
Grand Seminaire — that will not be until the boy is
nineteen, but I want you to promise to provide the
money. We need not consider the Petit Seminaire,
since I will prepare him for his Baccalaureat; already
I am supplementing his studies.

‘Doubtless he could take a scholarship with ease,
but that would mean his going to a local institution,
whereas I wish to make him a priest of the world —
for the world needs its priests to help it to heaven. I
wish him to go to Paris, Genevieve, or rather to the
Grand Seminaire at Versailles; only the best is good
enough for Jan who possesses a rarely courageous
spirit.

‘And now, Genevieve, the better to persuade you,
I will gladly humble myself to the dust and will tell
you that I have been a great failure. In thirty years I
have done very little except to surround myself with
books, and these days when I realize my short¬
comings, I find it hard indeed to correct them —
Genevieve, if your northern son should crave the
south, see to it that his visits are of short duration.
Yet I do feel that God in his infinite mercy is giving
me one more opportunity to serve Him. He is giving
me the chance to train this boy who possesses the
qualities which I myself have lacked, and which, for a
priest, axe so very essential.

‘I appeal to you, will you compassionate my
need? Will you help me to justify myself in God’s
sight? I am writing not as your spiritual Father,
but rather as a tired and ageing man who earnestly
begs that you will not refuse him.

ii6

‘May God bless you. I clasp your hand in friend¬
ship.’

The Cure carefully read over his letter, after which
he carried it down to the post box.

‘If she wiU only consent . . .’ he mused, sighing.

Then, although he no longer felt love for this
woman, his thoughts of her became very limpid ^d
sweet — as limpid and sweet as a stream from the
mountains. And he visualized Genevieve as Jan’s
mother, and himself, for the first time, as Jan’s
fleshly father. And this he did without guile and
without sin — unless the paternal instinct be sinful.

Ten days later the Comtesse de Berac replied: ‘ It
made me very happy to receive your letter, and yet
sad. It was all a long time ago but I have never
forgotten om friendship, nor have I forgotten you
in my prayers. But do not let me dwell too much on
myself, for I, like you, belong to the past, whereas
your Jan belongs to the future,

‘How could you have imagined that I would refuse?
Of course, my dear Antoine, you shall have the money
— all the money you require to educate Jan and to fit
him worthily to enter the priesthood.

‘I myself will drive out to Versailles next week and
will have a long talk with the Superior who, by the
way, is related to my husband. From him I shall
learn just how much you will need; but you might
let me blow the age of the boy, I gather from your
letter that he is still quite young. Nevertheless we
will prepare things at once; I believe in the saying:
“There is no time like the present,”

‘I would greatly have med my own son to be a
priest, but diat privilege God has seen fit to deny
me. However, my Fernand is a good and charming
man — I have always much wished that you could
meet him.

‘When I have been to the Grand S^minaire I will

117

write you again, and do not forget to let me know
your protege’s age.

‘I clasp your hand in affectionate friendship.’

The Cure went down on his threadbare knees, and
his eyes were actually full of tears as he knelt before
his new crucifix — the one of fine wood that had been
carved by Anfos. And his heart was so glad and so
thankful for Jan, that he could not find words for his
own gratitude, but must just kneel there gazing up
at the Christ, while the tears overflowed and ran
down his gaunt face, leaving little shining streaks in
its furrows.

§3

People very soon heard about Jan’s good fortune,
for the Cur^ had reluctantly considered it his duty
to impart the tidings to Madame Roustan; and now
not a kilo of potatoes could she buy, or a bottle of
wine, or a bag of greengages, but their vendors must
hear all about her son who was under the protection
of the Comtesse de Berac.

Jouse was alternately amused and annoyed: Tt
would seem’ he remarked while feeling the latter,
‘that Saint Peter favours the Faubourg St. Germain.
No doubt he will ask for our family trees before he
permits us to pass into heaven! Do not be so ridicu¬
lous, my sister. Is it not enough that you have a good
son who could make his way without your fine lady?
To hear you so impressed by a noble name is to know
that indeed you are humble in spirit!’

At all of which Madame Roustan could smile:
‘Ai!_ las,’ she remarked to a neighbour one day, ‘what
a pity it is that my brother is so jealous.’

Marie was genuinely glad that her nephew should
be helped in so kindly and generous a maimer; all
the same she decided that le tout petit Loup would, in
time, excel even Jan in his studies: ‘Jan is clever,

ii8

yes, but our tout petit Loup has the wisdom of an owl
and the sharpness of a needle, Te, what a child!’
she laughed to her husband.

And le tout petit Loup who had come in unobserved,
must immediately start to show off his wisdom: ‘The
English walked about naked,’ he remarked, ‘all they
did to keep warm was to paint their bodies, and the
paint that they generally used was called woad. But
our brave Duke of Normandy made them wear
clothes. What a good thing it was that we conquered
the English!’

Goundran said nothing when he heard the news.
He liked Jan well enough but he thought that the
Cure showed great favouritism where he was con¬
cerned; all the same, being loath to criticize the
Church, he contented himself with shrugging his
shoulders.

Eusebe, however, not only shrugged his shoulders
until his head nearly disappeared between them,
but he swore so many inexcusable oaths whenever
Madame Roustan came within earshot that J6us6
felt himself bound to protest. After which Eusebe
would seize his old broom and sweep like a fiend
should she chance to be passing, and the dust would
come billowing out through the door of his shop,
which, of course, he took care to leave open.

‘That widow makes me want to vomit!’ he raged,
‘always running off to the Cure to confession, and
she as pufied up with satisfaction and wind as a Pope
who has eaten too fine a dinner. “Madame la Com-
tesse de Berac!” says she, and then she says: “Madame
la Comtesse de Berac!” And then she belches in case
she should bxurst with arrogance over her sacree
Comtesse. Merde! She is smely enough to block one’s
bile; the mere thought of her always congests my
liver.’ And he was not alone in his irritation, although
others expressed theirs with more refinement.

”9

On the whole Madame Roustan made but small
impression upon those who must listen to her weari¬
some bragging — for the people of Saint Loup cared
as little about tides as they did about the Chambre
des Deputes, governmental disputes, and vain poli¬
ticians, so that gradually she grew rather depressed,
since nothing is less pleasant than being deflated.
Thus it was that upon a certain warm night when the
port was noisy with voices and laughter, when some¬
one was tinkling a mandolin, and someone was swing¬
ing a concertina, and someone was urging his dog to
bark because someone else had just started singing,
thus it was that despite a studious son who was being
protected by so eminent a person, and despite her
own sense of superiority wmch should have made
her able to ignore her neighbours, Madame Roustan
of a sudden felt extremely depressed, and her thoughts
turned towards the Cafe de la Tarasque.

Now believing as she did in an ever-present devil,
it is strange that she could not detect fumes of sulphur,
that she could not perceive in her down-hearted
mood a state most propitious to successful temptation;
that, in fact, she saw nothing ominous in her sudden
desire to revisit the Cafe. For five years she had
never been near la Tarasque, although her own shop
was but three doors away, as not only did she highly
disapprove of the place, but she feared that it might
remind her of Goundran. Yet upon this particular
summer night, having seen that her child was safely
asleep, she proceeded to touch up her hair at the
glass, and then to steal guiltily out of the house while
tile marble clock in the parlour struck twelve — which
meant that she also should have been sleeping.

And as though to aid and abet the foul fiend in
his crafty attack upon Madame Roustan’s virtue.
Mere Melanie heaped coals of fire on her head by
extending a cordial and loudly voiced welcome:

120

‘Mais Madame, vous ^tes surement la bienvenue!’ And
this she said so that everyone might hear, which, al¬
though it should not have done any such thing, did
in fact make her client feel rather important.

It chanced that there was still room in the Cafe,
and Mere Melanie found a convenient table; then she
plumped herself down at Madame Roustan’s side,
and Madame Roustan ordered a groseille. The little
violinist with the hump on his back was fiddling,
but not many couples were responding, for the night
was almost too hot for them to dance — so hot that
whenever Mere Melanie moved she broke out into
rivers of perspiration;

‘And how is your very dear child?’ she enquired,
‘I see him sometimes when he plays with his comrades
— mais oui — I could stand and watch him for hours.
A fine boy, I think him exceedingly handsome!’

Madame Roustan savoured the iced groseille slowly,
being careful to cock her fourth and fifth fingers, and
after she had taken three elegant sips: ‘My Jan is as
usual, quite well, thank God — and just now he is
to be congratulated. As you no doubt have heard
he is going to be a priest, and when he is older he
will go to Versailles — to the Grand S^minaire at
Verst^es, the best in France, which is thanks to
Madame la Comtesse de Berac.’

‘La Comtesse de Berac 1’ exclaimed M^e M61anie,
who was genuinely overcome with amazement, ‘But
surely that is a very great name?’

‘Without doubt a great name,’ agreed Madame
Roustan.

And now, comfortably launched, she explained at
vast length all that Jan might hope to gain through
this lady, who, hearing of his piety, his talents and
his charm, had promised to provide for his clerical
fixture. And Mere Melanie listened with such obvious
respect that Madame Roustan’s heart warmed towards

I2I

her, for here at long last was sorneone in Saint Loup
who accorded her news deferential treatment.

Presently the little violinist stopped playing and
Mere Melanie called him over to the table: ‘Alexandre!
Come here and listen to this! Madame’s son will go
to the Grand Seminaire at Versailles and the Comtesse
de Berac will pay, because Monsieur le Cure finds him
so brilliant. Ah, what a joy! The child may become
a bishop! Madame must indeed be a proud and glad
mother.’ And she ventured to press her client’s plump
hand: ‘Alexandre, go and fetch us a bottle of porto!’

So the little violinist with the hump on his back
went and fetched the port wine, and three very large
glasses which Mfere Melanie generously filled to their
brims.

‘Vot’ sante, Madame!’ she said, raising her glass.

‘Vot’ sante!’ echoed the little violinist.

‘Sante, monsieur-et-dame!’ bowed Madame Roustan.

The glasses were emptied and quickly refilled, for
M^re Melanie must drink to the future bishop: ‘A
votre fils, a I’evgque!’ she announced solemnly.

‘A I’eveque!’ gravely echoed the little violinist.

‘Amonbiencher Jan,’ murmured Madame Roustan.

Then the little violinist with the hump on his back
wished to drink to the noble and pious benefactress:
‘A Madame la Comtesse de Berac!’ he exclaimed,
inclining his head through respect for the lady.

So Madame Roustan must again fill her glass in
order to drink to the Comtesse de Berac.

C^te naturally all this bowing and scraping had
attracted the attention of the other clients, and now
a hefty young sailor-man loudly demanded to be
told what was happening.

‘Is our Mere Melanie about to be married? Because
if she is I also will drink wine.’ And he flung himself
down at Mere Melanie’s side; ‘Garmon, bring four
bottles of porto!’ he commanded.

122

Several other habitues joined the party, attracted
thereto by so princely an order, and as they thought
Madame Roustan a newcomer, they must all drink
her health a great many times:

‘Madame, a vot’ sante!’

‘Messieurs, k la votre!’ for courtesy surely demanded
such an answer. So after awhile breaths reeked like
a winepress whose dregs have lain long and thus
over-fermented.

Now whether it was some kind of reaction brought
about by this highly appreciative welcome, or whether
it was the little violinist who most deftly and silently
replenished the glasses, or whether it was the great
heat of the room which had made her feel quite
uncommonly thirsty, or whether it was that the
strong and sweet wine very soon seemed as harmless
as the weak and sweet groseille, Madame Roustan
never knew; but the fact remains that she found
herself drinking toast for toast in accordance with the
finest traditions of the Caft. And moreover by the
dme that she realized in a vague, placid, happy way
what she was doing, it seemed to her not only natural
but right, and not only natmral and right but pleasant.

‘Madame la Comtesse de Berac .. .’ she hiccoughed,
‘My dear son a priest . . . and . . . Comtesse de
Berac. . . .’

No one smiled, but the sailor began to chant slowly:

‘As tu vu les fesses de ma belle Louise?

As tu vu ses pis qui sont ^ croquer?’

And many other charms which Louise possessed
were minutely described by the now dolefiil singer,
who feeling in great need of sympathy was mal^g
sad sheep’s-eyes at Madame Roustan.

The little violinist had started to play, so a few who
felt sure enough of their legs left their seats and went
off in search of partners. And some of the couples

123

must dance cheek by jowl, and in other ways demon¬
strate their aflfection.

‘As tu vu les fesses de ma belle Louise?’ played the
little violinist on his teasing fiddle.

M^re Melanie wiped her beetle brows; then she
drained the bottles into her glass, yawned, drank up
the dregs, lit a cigarette, yawned again, and finally
glanced at her watch — somewhere in the distance a
bell was ringing. Mere Melanie made the sign of the
cross very largely upon her ample bosom.

Madame Roustan got up: ‘I must go. . .’ she
saiid weakly, for by now she was feeling both sick and
giddy. But she managed to stumble down the long
room and out into the disconcerting sunshine.

It was lucky indeed that the spiteful Eus^be had
not happened to wander along to la Tarasque; that
Jous^ hardly ever went there these days; and that
Goundran was still bent on saving his money. It was
also lucky that Mere Melanie made a rule of never
discussing her clients; but luckier still was the fact
that Madame Roustan lived only three doors away
from the Cafe.

124

Chapter x

T he Cure was more than a little disappointed at
the way in which his pupil received the news that
his future was being provided for. He had thought
that the boy would be overjoyed, for he knew very
well that Jan was ambitious. But Jan only looked
rather thoughtful and grave; and when the Cure
eagerly persisted;

‘My son, have you realized all this means? Your
training will be paid for by the kindest of ladies,’
Jan’s answer was made in a doubtful voice:

‘Yes, I know . . . but what will she do for
Christophe?’

So the Cure did his best to explain that the Comtesse
de Berac had only been asked to help Jan because he
would enter the Church, whereas Christophe would
continue to work with his father.

That night Jan remained awake a long time, for
his heart as well as his mind was uneasy. In a dim,
childish way he perceived a great diflference between
being an arrogant leader in games and this real and
very substantial advantage which had suddenly come
to turn out of the blue, and the more he considered
it the more he felt troubled, so that his pleasure in
the contemplation of going to the Grand Seminaire
at Versailles was damped because nothing would
be done for his friend — thus he paid his first youthful
toll to affection.

125

The next afternoon, their school being over, Jan
hurried round to the Benedit’s house, only to find
Christophe working in the shop, which added to that
feeling of uneasiness and trouble.

‘Cannot you come out?’ he asked anxiously. ‘The
Cur^ does not want me and so I thought that we might
go up to the old citadel — in this heat we are certain
to see many lizards!’ And this he said knowing that
Christophe was bent upon trying to tame the elusive
creatures.

Christophe glanced at his father: ‘May I?’ he en¬
quired, and his voice was so unmistakably eager that
J6use nodded his curly head:

‘Mais oui, be off, my indolent son!’ For he could
not bring himself to refuse in view of the splendid
summer weather.

So the cousins proceeded to dash along the street
before le tout petit Loup could join them, MirMo
following as best she might, her ears back, her tail
down and her pink tongue lolling. Presently the three
of them turned under an archway that had been
bequeathed to Saint Loup by the Romans, and that
guarded a precipitous path up the hill that led to
die ancient, crumbling fortress. And beyond on the
hill-side the air was so quiet that the heat lay revealed
by a thin but clear shimmer, and the ground was so
impregnated with the heat that it burnt through the
soles of the boys’ canvas shoes, while the sun ^ but
blistered the skin on their shoulders.

‘Rampau de Di^u, what a sim!’ Jan grumbled.

But Christophe, being in excellent spirits, foxmd
nothing to grumble at in the sunshine — his cousin’s
good foitxme had not kept him awake, indeed he had
thought very little about it except to feel pleased that
something had happened which everyone said was to
Jan’s advantage. So now he whistled as they climbed
the steep path, and he urged Jan to hurry:

126

‘Zou, zou/ he kept saying, for Jan was rather
inclined to lag, and Christophe was thinking about
the lizards.

And sure enough, when they reached the ruin,
every other grey stone seemed to hold a slim body
which ended in a pair of very bright eyes — in eyes that
were not only bright but observant, so that suddenly
there were no lizards at all.

‘It would seem that your friends have departed,’
said Jan, laughing.

Christophe sat down with his back against a rock,
while Jan stretched himself on the ground beside him;
then MirHo discovered a patch of shade in which
she lay alternately licking her sores, hunting her ticks,
and panting loudly; but after a little she dropped off
to sleep:

‘That is good,’ said Christophe, ‘we will now sit
quite still.’

And Jan did his level best to obey him.

One by one the lizards, hearing no noise, began to
come out of the holes and crannies; extending them¬
selves upon the stones and lifting their little reptilian
heads to warm the skin of their throats in the sunshine.
Then Christophe uttered a very small sound — it was
like a soft but compelling summons — and a lizard
turned itself quickly about, fixing inquisitive eyes
upon him; so once more he made that very small
sound, and the creature, still looking at him, moved
nearer.

‘I am your friend, you know. . . .’ Christophe told
it.

But just then Mir^io was disturbed by the flies, and
she started an incessant and irritable snapping, while
Jan suddenly shuffled his restless feet because they so
longed to be scaling the ” ramparts; and the lizard,
feeling itself betrayed, mistrustfully darted back into
a cranny.

127

‘Never mind, it will come to me again,’ said
Christophe.

After this the boys clambered about those old walls
that had once known the thunder and stress of battle.
And Jan pulled off his jersey, which was striped red
and white, and he tied it on to the end of a stick:

‘Who will foUow the banner of the cross?’ he shouted,
waving the jersey above his head. ‘Christophe, come
on! We are now crusaders!’

So they played at being in Palestine where Jan,
single-handed, slew countless unbelievers; and where
Christophe must continually dash to his aid in the
face of terrific personal danger. Nor did MirMo
prove less courageous, indeed she was so much ex¬
cited by the shouting that she quite forgot the eleven
long years which had lain all too heavy upon her
just lately, and she thought of herself as a hound of
war, so must run about growling ferociously in spite
of her many sores and her lameness.

But on their way home Jan grew very quiet, for
he wanted to say a great many things that somehow
refused to get themselves said — he wanted to say how
troubled he was because Christophe could not share
his good fortime. And since words seemed to fail
him he groped in his pocket, producing his biggest
and gaudiest marble.

‘Allons, take it! I will give it to you;’ he mumbled.

‘Why?’ enquired Christophe, delighted and sur¬
prised.

‘Because I would very much like you to have it.’

Presently Jan said: ‘Supposing I were rich. . . .
supposing I were made a bishop or a cardinal and
wanted- to give you a magnificent present; what
would you like best in all the world?’ And he waited
expectantly for the answer.

But the answer when it came was most unsatisfac¬
tory for without so much as a moment’s hesitation
128

Christophe replied, to Jan’s great surprise; ‘I would
wish for a pair of Eusebe’s sandals.’

‘Comment!’ exclaimed Jan, feeling dashed and
cross, ‘I thought you would at least want a house like
the mayor’s that has a big garden with pale blue
vases, and a terrace with yellow tiles and a vine,’

‘I do not care for pale blue vases,’ said Christophe.

‘Well, perhaps a fine horse to ride . . .’ persisted
Jan, ‘A fine horse that resembles the one in that book
the Cure lent me about crusaders.’ For he longed that
his cousin should express a desire for some gift that
would cost a great deal of money. ‘But yes,’ he went
on dictatorially, ‘you would certainly ask me to give
you a fine horse.’

‘I would not. I would ask for a pair of sandals —
I have wanted a pair for a very long time.’ And
indeed it was true, although until now this craving of
Christophe’s had gone unsuspected.

Jan frowned: ‘Pou,’ he remarked with annoyance,
‘they are cheap, common things, my mother says so;
and besides, they are pagan, my mother says — except
of course, when they are worn by the friars; when the
friars wear sandals they make them Christian. I
insist that you ask me for something else. If you do not
like the house of our mayor I might be able to give you
a palace; or perhaps a great ship, as you so much
love the sea, or.. .he paused and started to rack his
brain, ‘or a sword in a jewelled scabbard,’ he finished.

Christophe sighed. ‘But I do not want any of those
things,’ and that sigh had in it a suggestion of
impatience.

Now by all the laws governing courteous behaviour,
Christophe should not have continued so stubborn;
but then neither should Jan have flown into a rage
merely because of his great disappointment — and
yet so it was:

‘Imbecile!’ he exploded. ‘And not only are you

I 129

stupid, but you do it on purpose! You pretend that
you do not care for such things, whereas everyone
cares for magnificent presents. Very well, I hope
you will always be poor,’ And he quite inexcusably
added: ‘Cochonl’

Christophe flushed crimson right up to his scalp,
while his close-cropped red hair seemed about to
bristle: ‘Cochon yourself!’ he exclaimed furiously, ‘I
will not permit you to call me bad names! And I
do not believe you will ever grow rich; and I do want
a pair of Eus^be’s sandals!’

At this stage Jan forgot that he might become a
bishop, and he said many things that were far from
polite, and which he most certainly could not have
heard on the lips of the Cure or Madame Roustan —
but Jan had long been familiar with the port, where
the Provencal tongue is very elastic. As for Christophe
his temper was almost as fierce as his cousin’s, when
aroused through a sense of injustice, so that now
they must go at it hammer and tongs, to the great
disquietude of Mireio. Then, just as they were walking
under that arch which had been bequeathed to
Saint Loup by the Romans, Christophe suddenly
hurled away Jan’s gift:

‘Nothing of yours do I want!’ he said loudly, ‘no,
neither a palace, nor a ship, nor a horse — and I do
not want your dirty old marble!’

And so, as will frequently happen in this world, the
best of intentions had led to trouble; Jan’s impulse of
generosity had but ended in a noisy and groundless
quarrel. Having talked a very great deal too much,
die cousins parted without saying good-bye, and in
consequence neither enjoyed his supper. However,
these storms which would blow up like thunder over
their otherwise cloudless horizon, never lasted for long,
and this one* had quite passed by the time they were
going to school the next morning.

130

Jan said: ‘I am sorry.’

And Christophe replied by presenting ids cousin
with a brand new marble which might well have been
the twin of the one that was lost: ‘Please give it to me
all over again.’

So Jan solemnly handed him back the marble.

§2

A few days later Jan went to Eus6be, and he said:
‘Christophe greatly desires a pair of sandals. I have
only three sous so I cannot pay you. . . . Do you
think you could possibly make them for nothing? If
you will do this I will pray a long prayer to Sant
Jan I’ami de Di6u for your vineyards.’

Eusebe rolled his black eye and looked fierce: ‘Ho,
ho! So our Christophe now wishes for sandals. And
what will our Christophe’s godmother think?’

‘I cannot imagine,’ Jan answered gravely. Though
indeed he did not very much care at that moment
what his mother would think: ‘I will pray two long
prayers if you wish, Eusebe.’

But now Eusebe appeared to be outraged by so
unworthy and mean a proposal: ‘Not enough, not
enough, I must have nine long prayers!’

‘Very well, to-morrow I will start a Novena!’

Then Eusebe laughed, and he patted Jan’s shoulder:
‘Petit sot, I do not want your long prayers. The good
saints are unlikely to be my fiiends, as I do not doubt
your dear maman has told you. Nevertheless I will
do as you ask; and when you have become a very
fat bishop I wall send in my bill and then you shaU
pay. Meanwhile tell Christophe to come and be
measured.’

§3

Familiar though Christophe now was with Eusdbe,
he had never yet seen him fitting sandals; Eusebe

131

jdways turned the boys out of his^ shop when he was
engaged in this manner with a client.

‘Go away,’ he would ord^ peremptorily; and if he
should catch them peeping in at the door, he would
glare with so awfiil and threatening an orb that not
one of the three would have the courage to defy him:
‘Did I not command you to^ go?’ he would shout at
the guilty and swifdy retreating figures.

For just as the immortal Leonardo da Vinci must
have felt when it came to the painting of pictures -
intolerant, resentful of eve^ distraction that sought
to intrude on the realm of his genius — even so Eus^be
felt in his degree, since the spirit is all, when it comes
to labour. Thus Christophe went alone to fit his first
sandals, much impressed by the solemnity of the
occasion; having washed his feet with unusual zeal,
then requested his mother to cut his toe nails. And
there was Eusebe with a large sheet of paper spread
out on the floor, and witli a very fat pencU; and he
ordered Christophe to take off his shoes and stand
perfectly still on that large sheet of paper. After which
he outlined both his feet in turn, squeezing the
pencil between his big toe and its neighbour so that
Christophe who was_ ticklish, laughed, despite the
solemnity of the occasion.

The drawing completed, Eusebe gazed at it for a
moment with obvious satisfaction: ‘A good shape, and
no corns or other defects. There are some who come
here with their joints sticking out on each side like
a couple of rotten apples: “Eusebe, make me a pair
of sandals,” they say; but I tell them they can go to
the devil! I will fit you on Thursday evening at six,
and do not be late; I am very busy.’

The following Thursday Christophe arrived with a
punctuality bom of impatience. And now he was to
see a fine craftsman in the grip of something very
like inspiration. Meanwhile, he himself must stand

132

on a block staring down at the top of that craftsman’s
head, which he could not but observe was extremely
dirty.

Eus^be took up the unfinished sandals, thrusting
them defdy into position; then he started to coax
and adjust the thongs — one between the toes, one
across the heel, and five lying neatly over the instep.
And the while he worked it seemed he must gabble,
either to the sandals or to himself: ‘Santouno! But
what is the matter to-day? I observe that you are in
a bad temper. Do you wish to give him a blister on
his heel? You do not? Then get down a little bit
lower . . . voila! And now what about the big toe
— I think we are rather short in the strap, mais oui,
and that is a very bad fault — gently, gently, it is less
than an eighth of an inch! Ah, but look at the lie of
you over his instep; your lie is superb, so firm yet so
kind. . . . Eus^be, you are a fine sandal-maker.
Eusebe, you could surely have made for the Greeks
and been very well paid, for you know your business.’
During all of which Christophe must perch on his
block, trying hard not to laugh when Eusfebe tickled.

But at last Eusebe looked up with a smile which, for
him, was very nearly serapfiic: ‘The fitting is over
and your sandals go well. I do not think we need
fit them again — you have got the most excellent feet
for sandals!’

So Christophe climbed down and collected his shoes,
blushing because of this unexpected praise. Then he
thanked Eusebe for the generous gift, but somewhat
spoilt the effect of his good manners by turning back
when he had reached the door, in order to ask how
soon he could have it.

‘Not before this day week,’ said Eusfebe.

133

T he afternoon sun streamed into Christophe’s attic,
slanting across his narrow white bed with the
china holy-water stoop above it, touching a picture
of the Virgin on the wall and revealing the layer of
powdery dust that filmed the shiny black frame of
the Virgin. On the well-worn floor-boards this after¬
noon sunshine had formed itself into a pool of light
whose brilliance contrasted sharply with the shadows
that lay in the sagging corners of the room; and
directly in the middle of this luminous pool, gravely
contemplating his toes, sat Christophe.

He knew very well that he should have been working.
To be sure it was a half-holiday, but his father had
said before leaving the house to attend a sale at a
neighbouring coast-town: T myself may not get back
un^ late, therefore Anfos will show you how to dove¬
tail that box. I wish you to listen attentively to him,
and not to tiy and persuade him to play because,
being half-witted, he is frequently cMdish.’ And
Christophe had dutifully acquiesced, but while his
lips had said: ‘Oui, mon pere,’ his thoughts had
irresistibly strayed to his sandals.

Eusebe had brought them across after dinner, very
neatly tied up in a clean sheet of paper. Jous^ had
already gone off to the station, but Marie had offered
a glass of red wine to the unexpectedly generous donor,
feeling that she could not very well do less. ‘Your

134

sandals have arrived!’ she had called to Ghristophe.
And hardly had Eusebe returned to his shop than
Ghristophe had rushed upstairs with the parcel; so
now here he was amusing himself when he should
have been making a box with Anfos.

He began to turn his feet this way and that, admir¬
ing the pattern of the thongs across his insteps,
admiring the pliant brown leather of the thongs, and
the heavy workman-like soles of the sandals, admiring
the neat little straps between his toes, and the neat
little straps that clung to his heels with such gentle
but reassuring persistence. Then quite suddenly as
he sat on in the sunshine there came upon Ghristophe
a most ciurious sensation; he who had never
worn sandals until now yet felt that they were
intensely familiar, and that something else was familiar
as well: his great pleasure and pride in receiving this
present. It was almost as though it had happened
before, even to the minutest personal details — a new
pair of sandals given to a boy of eight years old by his
parents’ neighbour, and that boy sitting down to
examine the gift in a room which was bare but flooded
with sun, and that boy very conscious of idling his time
when instead he should have been diligently working.

He frowned and began to ponder this thing: ‘Yes,
but working at what?’ he said half aloud.

And the answer flashed into his mind so clearly
that he almost fancied the words had been spoken:
‘Working at a little wooden box in the carpenter’s shop
that belonged to his father.’ Ghristophe sprang up,
completely bewildered.

Going onto the landing he hesitated — the house
struck him as being unusually quiet. Then he started
to descend the rickety stairs, his feet making a soft
heavy, slapping sound —the sound that is charac¬
teristic of sandals.

Voices reached him as though from a very great

135

distance, and he muttered: ‘There are Anfos and
Loup — I must find them.’ But now even their names
seemed a long way away, almost as far away as their
voices.

He realized that his head was aching, that indeed
his whole body felt vaguely uneasy, and since he was
a stranger to physical iUs he pressed his hands to his
throbbing head with a gesture half of fear, half of
resentment. Yet even as he did so he became aware
of a very great joy that surged up within him^ of an
indescribable sense of peace that far exceeded his
apprehension; and his mind must abandon itself to
this peace, fearlessly, trustfully, without question.
But the moment passed and he found himself standing
at the open door of his father’s workshop.

Loup was playing rather timidly with MirHo, and
Anfos was sawing a heavy log. The sawdust sprayed
out either side of the saw and drifted to the ground
where it gradually formed itself into a little golden
hillock. The sun fell on tlie biting steel of the blade
and on the strong, hairy arm behind it; the arm was
thickly corded with veins and covered with trickles
of perspiradon. Christophe stood silent and motionless,
watching. And as he stood there, the kind woodland
odour of the log upon which the apprentice was
working, the more pungent odour of freshly planed
planks grown sticky and resinous in the sunshine, the
faint but persistent odour of sweat that rose from the
straining body of Anfos; the toil, and the heat, and
the clean dry litter, his father’s tools on the bench
near the entrance, indeed all that made up the spirit
of that place began to stir in him a startled awareness,
began to take on a reality as new as it was surely
infinitely old, so that he wondered if what he saw was
being actually seen or remembered; and if remem¬
bered, with whose memory; and if seen, by whose
eyes—his own or another’s. . . .

136

At that moment Anfos looked up and perceived
him, and Anfos covered his face with his hands and
dropped to his knees with his face still hidden; while
le tout petit Loup pushed Mirao away and sat gaping
in wonder at the apprentice. Then Christophe walked
over to his father’s work-bench, but slowly as one who
walks in his sleep, and he took up a wooden mallet and
a chisel, and laying the chisel against an oak block he
struck it true and strong with the mallet. The chisel
moved, tracing a straight, deep line — hesitated —
slipped sideways and was finally still; and Christophe
also became very still, his whole body grown rigid
because of that stillness. Mirao crept forward and
crouched at his feet, but le tout petit Loup tugged
hard at his sleeve and spoke to him loudly, receiving
no answer. Then something like terror seized le tout
petit Loup, so that he started to scream for their
mother:

‘Maman, come here! Come quickly to Christophe!’

Anfos was still kneeling as Marie ran in, but he
rose when he heard her, uncovering his face and laying
a finger against his lips: ‘Hush, do not dare to intrude.
. . . ’ he whispered.

She pushed him aside, going quickly to her child,
and pale and trembling with fear though she was, she
managed to speak to the boy (juite calmly.

‘Christophe,’ she said, ‘Christophe, look at me,
dear one. Listen, enfantounet, your mother is
speaking . . . your mother who loves you and needs
you so much. Try to hear her and wake up, my little
son.’ And she placed her hand firmly over his hand:
‘Your mother who needs you so much;’ she repeated.

His limbs slowly relaxed and he heaved a deep
sigh; then he turned and saw her standing beside him.
In a moment his arms were around her neck: ‘I
thought I had lost you . . . lost you. . . .’ he sobbed
wildly.

137

Sitting down she drew him onto her knee, and when
his sobs had become less violent she questioned him
with great tenderness: ‘Little flower of my heart, try
to tell me what happened.’

So he tried, but quite failed to collect his thoughts;
one memory alone appeared to have persisted:
‘There is something that I must do,’ he faltered, ‘it
is something that makes me feel terribly afraid. . . .’

Marie kissed him, clasping the child to her breast:
‘Then you shall not do it, pichounet!’ she murmured.

But he looked at her out of his pale, bright eyes;
‘I will not always feel frightened,’ he said slowly.

She saw that her questions only distressed him, for
now once again he had started weeping: ‘It is that I
pity so much. . . .’ he wept. Yet when she asked
him for whom he felt pity, he seemed bewildered and
shook his head: ‘I cannot remember . . . perhaps
Mirdo.’

So she soothed him, stroking his tear-stained face,
and drying his eyes on her rough linen apron while
she coaxed with the simple and foolish words that
in times of trouble are consoling to children; ‘Let us
now pretend you are once more a baby so that
maman has to carry you up to bed;’ and lifting him
in her strong peasant arms she slowly mounted the
stairs to the attic; ‘When I have undressed you, my
very small son, I wiU go and make you a tisane de
menthe — maman will make it with a great deal of
sugar; and then she will sit beside you till you sleep.
To-morrow you shall have a fine holiday firom school,
and perhaps you can go down and bathe with Goun-
dran. Maman is here, and MirHo is here, and Loup
and Anfos, and presently your father will return —
think how many there are to protect you!’

And her words did console, for when he was in bed
he stopped crying and snuggled down under the
bedclothes. Then: ‘Make it very sweet, please . . .

138

you promised!’ he urged, as she hurried away to pre¬
pare the tisane.

§2

By the time the good Jouse got home that evening,
Christophe was sleeping quite peacefully. So his
father said: ‘It was certainly strange, yet I do not
think that we need worry about him —look at him
now, he is fast asleep. He may well have had a slight
touch of the sun; let us see how he is to-morrow morning,
it is rather late to trouble the doctor. Christophe
has always been healthy and strong —do I not know
it, I, who bred him? And now it is time that we also
were in bed, for your husband is no longer so young
as your son and when one is my age one feels this
great heat. . . . Ah, yes, Marioun, your poor hus¬
band is ageing!’ Then as though he would contra¬
dict Ids own words he gave her a mighty and bear¬
like hug: ‘To-day I have done a superb stroke of
business. Segnour Dieu, but I got that timber for
nothing! You shall certainly have a new dress for
Sundays.’

§3

Christophe was perfectly well the next morning.
He had slept a deep and refreshing sleep and was
rather unusually hungry for his breakfast, but Marie
insisted on the holiday from school, although Jouse
thought it unnecessary.

‘I promised that he should stay at home,’ she said
firmly, for she could not bear the boy out of her sight
— not just yet — and, diviidng this, Jouse consented.

She was very proformdly bewildered and disturbed
by what had occurred—a touch of the sun was the
explanation that her husband stiU clung to; but she

139

herself was far from being convinced that this was a
plausible explanation; Christophe was so thoroughly
accustomed to the sun of Provence, as were all the
other children. But she could not give a name to
the curious condition which had overtaken the boy
in the workshop. She had seen him while feeling that
he was not there . . . and surely he also must have
felt the same thing, for had he not said that he thought
he had lost her? Yet her instinct warned her not to
question him again, but rather to let the incident
drop as Christophe himself seemed inclined to do —
indeed only once did he speak of it that day, and
then without any apparent emotion:

‘Were you frightened when I went to sleep?’ he
asked, her.

‘No,’ she lied, ‘why should I have been frightened,
my son?’

‘That is good,’ he said slowly, ‘but yes, that is good,
because I would never like you to be frightened —
I was, though I cannot remember why.’ Then he
went to unchain Mireio in the yard and she heard
him whistling to himself as he did so.

‘It cannot have been very serious,’ she mused, only
too anxious to find consolation, ‘he is quite well again,
thanks to God and His saints; already he has nearly
forgotten all about it. . . . It may be that he really
did drop off to sleep. But can a child drop off to
sleep like that, standing?’

§4

And this was how they finally came to explain it
on those rare occasions when it chanced to be men¬
tioned: ‘The time when Christophe went to sleep at
his work;’ for such everyday words sounded reassuring,
and le tout petit Loup had been badly scared, so that
he needed a great deal of reassuring.

140

Anfos alone always shook his head: ‘That was not
sleep . . he would mutter in his beard.

Then Jduse, observing his wife’s anxious eyes,
would sharply command the apprentice to be silent,
so Anfos would obediently hold his peace, being
obedient and docile by nature.

Yet despite Christophe’s unimpaired physical health
and her willing acceptance of his own simple theory,
Marie perceived that the child had changed, that
now there were times when he seemed much less
childish; times, indeed, when he did not seem child¬
ish at all but unnaturally wise and grave for his age,
as though he had already learnt the gravity of life,
and he only a boy of eight years old. ... It would
strike her as being very perplexing.

She would find herself telling this son many things,
speaking as though he were already a man, and smiling
the while she talked of his father — so large, so foolish,
himself scarcely grown up with his great boisterous
laugh and his love of good food, and his habit of wear¬
ing the heels of his socks into round, gaping holes the
size of a duck’s egg. And her smile would be tender
and full of pride, as who should say: Ts he not a marvel,
my husband?’ And then she might thrust her knuckles
through a hole: ‘Look, Christophe, look what your
poor mother must dam! H6u, but your father is a
mighty man and heavy, that is why he always wears
out his socks. And you also, I think, will have his
big feet —let us hope that your wife will be clever
with her needle.’

And Christophe would nod understandingly, de¬
tecting in her voice the note of admiration for that
deep-chested, curly-headed sire of his, who kept her
so constantly darning and mending.

Sometimes she would speak of le tout petit Loup,
who although he seemed rather less ailing these days,
was still very far from being robust, while growing

141

more and more difficult to manage. ‘Ai! las,’ she
might sigh, ‘mon pauvre tout petit Loup, always
longing to be active and well, like you, Christophe;
always trying to do things beyond his poor strength
because he sees how you can work in the shop, and
how strong and splendid your arms are already
when you help yoxir father to lift the big planks . .

And Christophe would know that although their
mother had love and to spare for both her children,
she was filled with regret for le tout petit Loup,
and at moments felt even a little jealous of the strength
that had gone to her elder son who already could lift
the big planks with his father. So quite suddenly he
himself must grow sad because he could clearly divine
her sadness, and because he felt very inadequate when¬
ever he wanted to offer her comfort.

Then, as likely as not, Marie’s conscience would
smite her: ‘But why do I speak of these things to you,
Christophe? You are almost as young as le tout petit
Loup.’ And perhaps she would tell him to go and find
Jan, and to have a good game without his small
brother: ‘Do not take Loup this evening, just play by
yourselves ... I know well that he must often be in
the way. . . .’

But Christophe would hear far more than her
words, he would hear the voice of her heart always
pleading — always pleading on behalf of le tout
petit Loup: ‘No, no, I will surely take him,’ he
would answer; and her eyes would be filled with
dumb gratitude and would somehow remind him of
the eyes of MirHo.

For now, what had once come in passing flashes, had
grown into a profound and unavoidable knowledge
of those things that lay hidden in people’s hearts:
in the heart of his mother so fearful, so humble; in the
heart of his father who also feared lest grief should
darken the life of his mother; in the poor, angry.
142

heart of le tout petit Loup who longed for a healthful
and vigorous body; in the simple, bewildered heart
of Anfos who vaguely divined that he was half-witted.
And this knowledge was exceedingly hard to bear,
since the young will quite naturally shrink from
suffering. Thus all that was youthful and heedless in
Christophe, his will to that personal happiness which
is childhood’s essential and trusty armour, his will to
that purely physical joy which is childhood’s true
instinct of self-preservation, indeed everything almost
that made him a child, would rise up at times and
protest very strongly, so that he would find himself
filled with resentment against his own strangely
pitiful heart which forced him to divine those
other hearts. Aye, and to share their pain with
the beasts who groaned beneath man’s unmerciful
burden.

He would speak almost roughly to le tout petit
Loup: ‘No, you cannot come with me —I do not
want you.’ And when Marie would start to console
the child, and would look her amazement at this
swift change of humour, Christophe would stand
there dogged and scowling. Then perhaps he would
suddenly rush from the house, heedless of Mirdo
whose pads were too sore these days for her to run
without pain — he would try not to know that she
struggled to follow.

Going to the port he would seek out Jan and would
find him more than ready for trouble, so together
they might untie Goundran’s small boat and row her
far out, which was strictly forbidden. And other
similar things they might do, most of which would
be heavily pregnant with mischief, as, for instance,
when they blocked up the overflow of the town’s
highly prized municipal fountain. One fine afternoon
they must suddenly decide to go off and visit the Cafe
de la Tarasque —it was well that M^e Melanie’s

143

red amazon had recently gone to the canine Valhalla,
for as usual, MirHo had followed her master. ^

The boys plumped themselves down at this table,
then that, making faces at the little hump-backed
violinist: ‘Home bosa! Look at his hump!’_ they
bawled, whereupon several other small urchins joined
them: ‘Home bosa! Home bosa! Look at his hump!’
And the sailor-men lolling and drinking near by,
laughed loudly, to the children’s immense satisfaction.

But the little violinist who had just been endeavour¬
ing to drown that same hump in Mere Melanie’s
brandy, the little violinist flew into a rage and ordered
the pack of them off to God’s thunder: ‘Anas-vous-en
au tron de Dieune!’ he shouted, which caused much
general amusement.

Mere Melanie strode forth flushed and protesting,
her lusty black locks still confined by steel curlers;
and Mere Melanie was not looking her best, since
quite apart from the stiff curling pins, she never
troubled herself to wash, or to powder her nose, until
late in the evening. But the little violinist now turned
to his lady as though she alone could afford him
protection; then made bold by her presence he
picked up a glass, intending to hurl it at his tormentors:

‘Anas-vous-en au tron de Dieune!’ he babbled oyer
and over again, that being the only robust malediction
which the brandy permitted him to remember.

Mere Melanie tore the missile away, then she
slapped his hand and thrust him behind her. After
wluch she, in her turn, abused the boys, but in much
more explicit and versatile language. Finally she
threatened to evoke the law: ‘Unless you go quickly
I send for the gendarme!’ Nobody feared the gen¬
darme in Saint Loup, the small boys least of all — he
himself had eight cmldren.

But long before Mere Melanie’s final threat
Ghristophe had left the scene of the baiting, angry
144

because he felt pitiful, yet in spite of his anger con¬
sumed with pity. And as once, seven years ago, his
own father had walked slowly home, his head bowed
in contrition while Mireio limped along at his side
all battered and bloody but uncomplaining, so now
Christophe slowly walked towards home, and at his
side painfully limped old MirHo. And it seemed to
him that in some strange way there was kinship
between the bitch and the cripple; between all
afflicted and suffering things, were they dumb or
articulate, beasts or men —that their suffering con¬
stituted a union. Stooping down he fondled Mireio’s
head, walking even more slowly to ease her lameness,
while something within him started to weep because
of the beauty he perceived around him; a beauty of
mountains, of sea, and of sky blending into one vast
and fulfilling blueness, but a beauty that was shot
through and through with pain —the pain of the
hunchback, goaded, enraged, hot with brandy and
the shame of his ugly affliction; the pain of MirHo,
helpless and dumb, weak with age and long years of
neglect and scant feeding.

‘Oh, I do not wish to feel pity!’ muttered Christophe.

Presently they came to the ancient church, and
Christophe went into its cool, quiet shadows. Mir Ho
lay very still while he knelt before the shrine of the
warrior-bishop. Christophe stared up at the agM
saint who is carved out of wood and has time-blurred
features; and he thought of Mathilde who seemed
almost as old, but who wore a white cap instead of a
hat from which the gold-leaf was gradually peeling.
Ihen he thought of Saint Loup’s gratefd nightingale
that had come with the darkness to sing in his garden:
‘Praise God in His Golden Saints,’ it had. sung —
his mother had often told him the legend. Saint Loup
had restored its life to the bird, so Saint Loup must
have known what it felt like to pity.

145

Then Christophe prayed rather recklessly, so urgent,
so great was his need at that moment: ‘Oh, Saint Loup
if I have to go on feeling sorry . . . If I have to go on,
then please make me feel brave like you must have
felt when you drove back the heathen. But I do not
want to feel sorry any more — I want to be like all
the other boys — and I do not want to know about
pain, especially about Mireio’s pain. And I want to
leave my brother at home when I play, because he is
weak and spoils all our fun; I want him to stay at
home, please, with our mother. Saint Loup, you
were very different from me, for you were a splendid,
powerful saint who could easily have healed poor
Mirao’s sores, and made le tout petit Loup grow
strong, and taken the hump away from the violinist.
But I can do nothing — nothing at all — that is why
I am often terribly unhappy. Perhaps you could
speak to our dear Lord Jesus and ask Him to let me
be more like Jan; Jan is not at all worried about sad
things and yet, as you know, he is veiy religious.
Our Lord will undoubtedly listen to you, because you
put up a cross near the town to show Him that you
had defended the Christians. Oh, but yes. He will
listen to all you say, I know He will listen . . . Saint
Loup, please ask Him!’

He stopped praying, and finding two sous in his
pocket, proceeded to light a votive candle: ‘That
should help him to remember,’ he thought to himself,
feeling that a saint who heard so many prayers might
possibly need a tactful reminder.

The saint watched him with those motionless
wooden eyes from which the years have wiped all
expression. Then the candle burnt up revealing a
form that must once!^have been very golden and
splendid — in his left hand this soldier of Christ
holds a cross, but his right hand is clasped round
the hilt of a sword with which he may quite well have
146

smitten the heathen. And now the flame was swayed
by a wind that had suddenly started to blow from the
desert, from the desolate river bed of La Crau; in it
blew through the cracks and chinks of the windows.
Light and shade moved alternately across the carved
face giving it a startlingly lifelike expression, so that
Christophe felt certain his prayer had been heard:

‘All goes well,’ he told himself confidently, ‘it looks
as though our good patron were smiling.’

147

Chapter xii

§1

D espite Christophe’s faith in the power of Saint
Loup, all was only too far from well that autumn;
for that autumn MirHo’s fine courage broke, and with
its breaking her heart broke also. Old age super¬
imposed upon constant hardships, the film that was
gradually dimming her eyesight, the sores that so
stubbornly refused to heal no matter how diligently
she licked them, the ticks that for years had been
draining her strength, these things had at last got
MirHo under. And now came the added torment of
growths on those teats that had hung so painfully
heavy with the milk that should have been sucked by
her young, by the drowned bastard young of her past
fruitions. And MirHo very much wanted to die, and
she went with her pain and her weariness to Chris-
tophe. ^ She would stand gazing into his anxious face,
imploring his pity by her constant whining. Wherever
he chanced to be in the house these days, she would
m^e an effort to find him. It was terrible, for
Mir^o was unable to die; even the cruel m allgriant
growths were powerless, or so it seemed, to release
her.

Heartbroken, Christophe went to his father yet
again: ‘Father, can you do nothing for Mirao?’

‘Ai! las,’ sighed Jdus^, ‘what can one do? I have
not got a gun, nor can I shoot straight — if I tried to
shoot I might well only wound her.’

148

‘There is always the vet, . suggested Christophe
in despair; but this he did rather timidly for he knew
that just now they were short of money.

Jousfe shook his head: ‘There is also the doctor.
Have you forgotten your unfortunate brother? There
are also quite a few bills still unpaid —one cannot
clothe and feed children for nothing!’

Marie — who when she had time to think did very
sincerely pity the creature — was heavy with trouble,
for le tout j)etit Loup had developed something
wrong with his breathing, and most nights he must
sit propped up in his bed; the doctor had diagnosed
it as asthma. Le tout petit Loup now wheezed when
he ran and complained that his lungs felt tight to
bursting. He would weep, which of course made the
asthma much worse, and then he would double
up his thin fist and beat his thin chest in a fit of
anger. Moreover there was much that he must not
do, to say nothing of all that he must not eat. Small
wonder that Marie had no time for the bitch, with the
cares of a sickly but turbulent child and a household
upon her aching shoulders.

She said: ‘You should never forget, my son, that
although you may love MirHo very dearly, she is
certairily less than your brother in God’s sight.’ And
her voice soimded rather stem and reproachful.
So Christophe perceived that the time was at hand
when he himself must do his poor best, and he came
to a very momentous decision.

Theft — it was surely a deadly sin; he trembled to
contemplate his confession. The Cme’s low, stem
voice through the grille: ‘You have stolen a pot of
ointment, my child? You say you have stolen it
from your mother?’ And then Ms own answer: ‘I
stole it for our dog.’ And then . . .?^ But he could not
imagine what then, it passed the limits of imagination.
Suppose he should ask her to give him the omtment,

149

the miraculous ointment that she put on Hs^^ees
when he scraped them, that she had put on his father’s
thumb when a chisel had slipped and cut it last
winter; the ointment that had driven away the large
boil which Anfos had recently had on his neck? But
he knew beforehand that she would refuse. Had she
not refused to give it already? Had she not said that
the chemist was unpaid? And now there was still
more to pay to the chemist.

For three nights Christophe sternly examined his
conscience: ‘It is theft,’ he told himself, greatly
troubled, ‘and theft is a very deadly sin.’

The third night he heard the voice of MirMo.

The shed in the yard where Mir^o slept was just
to the side of his attic window, and Mirdo was
whining because of her pain, whining, and turning
restlessly — he could hear the unhappy thuds of her
body. Then Christophe knew that he meant to steal.

‘I am coming,’ he muttered, ‘only be patient.’

With pounding heart he crept down the stairs; he
felt cold and rather sick, but courageous. His bare
feet fell softly yet the woodwork creaked twice, so
that he had to stand still, scarcely breathing. Pre¬
sently he went on again, reassured; Loup was the
danger, he slept with Anfos and sometimes his wheez¬
ing kept them both awake, but perhaps they would be
sleeping soundly by now — it was nearly three o’clock
in the morning. When he reached the kitchen a shaft
of bright moonlight made it easy to find the key of the
cupboard; he knew where it was, in his mother’s
work-basket. He took it, unlocked the cupboard,
snatched the ointment, and quickly relocked the
cupboard again; after which he put the key back in its
place, and cautiously unbolting the door into the
yard, stole round to the shed where Mirao lay whining.

His footsteps had made no sound on the path,
but the bitch must have heard them by intuition, for

150

now she was gazing with dim, rheumy eyes at the
entrance to the shed, and as Christophe went in she
gave him a feeble but thankful welcome: ‘You have
come to bring me peace,’ said her eyes.

‘I have brought you the ointment that heals my
knees. I have stolen it out of my great love for you,’
he answered, misunderstanding her meaning.

Then he bade her roll over onto her side; and this
she did, even as she had done long ago when wishful
to suckle her lusty puppies. Clumsily and yet with
great tenderness he smeared the ointment over her
sores, and over those fearful cancerous growths that
now rendered her body a thing of pity ... of pity,
but also a thing of horror. And she sighed a deep
and most patient sigh as she lay there under his
fumbling fingers that gave so much pain to her
aching flesh, but balm to her spirit because of their
mercy. For she knew that he could not yet understand
tliat for her there was nothing left; in this world any
more — nothing left but the love of God, the ultimate
refuge of every creature. When he had finished she
hcked his hand, and at this he must suddenly begin
to cry, his tears dripping on to her great scarred flank.

‘I do love you so much, Mireio,’ he told her. Then
he said: ‘I will come to you every night. You will see,
this ointment will make you quite well; that I know,
because it has healed my knees many times.’

Mirdo did not contradict him.

§2

Marie never missed the precious ointment which
cost the eyes of the head at the chemist, since no
accidents chanced to occur just then. For the rest,
the household was so much upset by Loup's asthma
tibat it luckily failed to observe Mireio’s coat,_ which
was , suspiciously greasy. Every night Christophe

151

kept himself wide awake until it was safe to steal
down and tend her; every night he anointed Mireio’s
sores and the growths that were eating into her body.
But the sores did not heal nor the growths diminish;
on the contrary the growths seemed to get larger.

Then Christophe humbled himself to Saint Loup,
and as he did this he became a child who must
think, and pray, and hope as a child: T asked you to
make me like Jan,’ prayed Christophe; T asked you
not to let me see pain ... I will see all the pain, yes,
all the pain in the world, if only you will help me to
cure Mireio. I know I am a very great sinner — a
thief; I know that I ought to confess to the Cure,
but I do not want to confess to him just yet because
he might tell me to give back the ointment. Let me
keep it a little while longer, please, Saint Loup, in case
it should really be good for Mireio. But I promise that
I will go to confession and that I will ask for a veiy
hard penance. I will say to the Cure: ‘T am vile in
all ways.” I will read my Examination of Conscience
so that I may not forget one sin, and then I will ask
for a very hard penance. I will tell him how much I
enjoy bouillabaisse, and little new cakes that are
covered with sugar, and tisane de menthe that is
made very sweet. Then perhaps he will say: “None
of these shall you have for a year.” Or perhaps he
may even say: “Never, never again must you eat
bouillabaisse. And remember when you see it, or even
smell it and feel hungry because you like it so much,
that you stole a pot of ointment from your mother!”
And never again will I eat bouillabaisse if only you
will help me to cure Mireio. Think of your nightin¬
gale, Golden Saint Loup — it was little and helpless
and so you felt pity. Mireio is terribly large, I know,
but I beg you to try and pity her also. Tell our Lord
that I do not want to be spared, that I am quite
ready to go on feeling sorry. Tell Him that I do not

152

want to be like Jan — unless He would prefer me to be
like Jan — and then ask Him to forgive me for stealing
the ointment.’ In this wise Christophe humbled
himself to the saint who had raised a nightingale from
the dead — that is if one may credit tradition.

Who can know why Saint Loup failed to answer
that prayer? Perhaps he was very much occupied
with matters pertaining to more grievous sinners. Be
that as it may, Christophe’s prayer went unheard
and Mirao’s condition remained unaltered. Then
Christophe completely lost faith in Saint Loup, and he
thought very bitterly indeed about him; T do not
believe that he loved little birds — I do not believe
in his nightingale legend. I do not believe, no, I do
not believe! It is time that I tried to find someone
kinder.’ And all of a sudden he remembered the wolf
that, repenting itself of its erstwhile sins, had become
as a faithful dog to Saint Francis.

So now night and morning that merciful saint
whose hands and feet bore the blessed stigmata,
that saint must lean down from the shining throne
upon which his suppliant visualized him, the better to
listen to stumbling prayers which were growing
more and more incoherent. And the night came when
Christophe went to Mirdo but discarded the jar of
his precious ointment, when he just sat still with her
head on his lap, talking softly but earnestly under his
breath, for he thought that his voice and his presence
soothed her. And believing that Mirdo could com¬
prehend words, he told her, quite simply, the story
of Saint Francis; the story of The little poor Man of
God, who having neither purse, nor cloak, nor shoes,
had yet given to his lesser brethren a gift that must
always be beyond price — the gift of a pitiful under¬
standing.

‘And so,’ said Christophe, ‘you need not feel afiaid,
for soon this terrible pain will have left you. I cannot

153

cure your body with my hands because I am not a
saint Mirao; but I think . . . ’ he hesitated, amazed
at the words that were forming themselves in his
mind ‘I think that I can send you to God with my
hands, and that God who loves you will surely be
waiting.’ Trembling, he laid his hands on her head:
‘God,’ he whispered, ‘I ask You to take Mireio.’

She tried to shift her position very slightly so that
she might look up into his face, so that she might tell
him with her grateful eyes that in him she perceived
the image of God made manifest to her dumb under¬
standing. That in him and through him she had
reached a love that was deathless, since it was the love
of God which could make the most humble of lives
eternal. Then her head dropped gently away from
his touch, and over Mireio there came a great stillness.

Terrified and confounded Christophe stared at her
body growing chilly in death, and already unfamiliar:
‘Mireio!’ he cried out like the grief-stricken child that
he was; ‘MirHo, what have I done?’ And he looked
at his work-scarred and merciful hands with fear, for
now he was very young — a little Provencal peasant
boy of eight years old who lived in Saint Loup and
who worked at a carpenter’s bench with his father.

§3

Anfos it was who went to Jouse and begged his
permission to bury Mireio. Love for Christophe had
apparently sharpened his wits, and he thought that
the child might well be consoled if he knew that the
creature was decently buried.

Jouse was not inclined to refuse. He had found his
son in the shed that morning sitting dry-eyed and
speechless beside the body, and something in Chris-
tophe’s stricken young face had touched the heart of
the father in Jouse. So now he said: ‘C^spi, you may

154

bury the bitch, that is if you can manage to get anyone
to help you, for I think you will find her heavy
enough —her great carcase will be no light weight
to carry. But of course you must bury her after dark.
One does not parade dead dogs through the streets
of Saint Loup by daylight as though they were
Christians!’ for Jouse much disliked ridicule. ‘And
where will you dig this fine grave?’ he questioned.

Anfos hesitated, and then he said slowly: ‘I thought
at the foot of Eusebe’s vineyards. . . .’

‘Ho, ho!’ exclaimed Jouse. ‘Well then, monpauvre
bougre, you had certainly better obtain his consent,
otherwise he may well dig her up again. I advise you
to go now at once and consult him.’

So Anfos went over to Eusebe and tried to obtain his
permission also: ‘I ask this for Christophe’s sake,’ he
aegan, which was wonderfully clever for a half-wit
! ike Anfos, since Eusebe —that cross-grained old
sinner — had a certain sneaking affection for
Christophe.

Eusebe frowned, and spat heavily; then he shrugged,
and cast his eye up to the ceiling; then he started to
roU a small cigarette in dirty paper between dirty
fingers; and finally: ‘What is all this that I hear? You
would plant a dead dog at the foot of my vineyards?
Santouno, what next will ^ou suggest, I wonder! No,
certainly not. Do you think I grow grapes for the
finest red wine in all France from corpses?’ For
Eusebe liked to assert himself when it came to the
matter of granting a favour.

Poor Anfos could only nibble his beard and stand
on one foot and then on the other: ‘I had hoped. . . ’
he faltered, but his courage failed; he was really
terribly afraid of Eusebe. Those uneasy ill-matched
orbs filled him with fear; indeed, nothing on earth but
devotion to Christophe coxild have tempted him into
the ogre’s lair: ‘I will go —but at once I will go,’

155

stammered Anfos as he beat a hasty retreat to the

^°d'o not be such an imbecile!’ snapped Eusebe. Of
course he had always intended to give in, so that he
started to speak less fiercely; ‘It may be that I shall
not say no after all. It may very well be that, upon
second thoughts, I shall find myself much inclined to
say yes ... I do say it. Yes, you may bury the bitch
in that bit of waste ground that abuts on my vines,
but’—and now he really became terrific—‘but the sainte
protect you if so much as a leaf, if so much as a tendril
IS touched in the process. Sarnipabieune! I will
strip you of skin! I will pluck the beard from your face

hair by hair! I will. . . .’

In sheer panic Anfos turned and fled, scuttling
away to the port to find Goundran.

Goundran agreed to help willingly enough: ‘I will
come to-night bringing an old sail with me. Mean¬
while you must find a lantern and spade — we shall
need a lantern for the moon is still young. How is
Christophe taking the death of the bitch?’

‘I do not know — he says little,’ Anfos told him.

§4

When most of the windows of Saint Loup were
dark because most of its tired inhabitants were
sleeping, Mirdo’s funeral procession set forth. Goun¬
dran and Anfos were carrying the body very neatly
sewn up in the promised sail; Christophe was carrying
the spade and lantern. In silence they made their
way through the town, and in silence the three of
them passed out beyond it and started to climb the
steep, dusty hill that led to the foot of Eusebe’s vine¬
yards — to that rock-strewn waste-land where Mirdo
still lies, the soil being too stony for cultivation. And
even the strong arms that carried her ached, for

156

emaciated though she had become, there were always
her bones, and her bones were mighty. The new moon
hung sideways. Great luminous stars shone over the
road and the nearer mountains; while beyond the
sterile and sun-parched waste-land there lay faintly
discerned a fertility so violent, so undisciplined, that
the fecund vines must strain their tendrils almost to
breaking. Anfos sighed and his sigh sounded loud in
the night, for the night seemed well-nigh as still as
his burden. And a little ahead walked Christophe,
alone, his lantern casting a dim, yellow beam, the
spade carried strongly across his left shoulder.

Goundran thought: ‘My godson is indeed a
strange boy —no word of regret, no emotion, no
weeping. And yet I do know how he loved the beast
. . . ’ Then he thought: ‘She was very shamefully
neglected; I remember thinking that, years ago, when
I saw her in the widow Roustan’s shop. I remember
thinking that I wotdd speak . . . Ah, well, when a
has his work to attend to, when a rnan possesses
a couple of vessels as I do these days, it has meant
hard work. Belli Santo d’or, she is heavy!’

Anfos thought . . . But Anfos could think of so
little that it hardly seems worA the trouble of record¬
ing. The effort of the morning had tired his weak
mind — his mind would often grow tired in the even¬
ing and now it was past twelve o’clock at night, so
that what thoughts he had came vaguely to Anfos.

Christophe thought: ‘Mirao is sewn up in that
sail —she cannot come limping to find me any
longer. Never again will I stroke her big head, no,
never again as long as I live . . . and I laid my hands
on her poor, big head ... I felt that there was
something strange about them. I think that now
I am afraid of my hands because they were able to
send her to God. But where is she? Am I certain
that she is with God? Jan would not believe that she

157

is with God . . . perhaps that is really Mir^io in
the sail; perhaps there was never any other Mirdo
at all.’ Then he suddenly found himself whispering:-
‘Please God, do be very kind to MirHo.’

The digging was hard when they reached the
ground. Anfos and Goundran dug the grave by turns,
while Christophe stood near-by to light their labour.
The grave looked so large that, as Goundran remarked,
it might very well have done for a man. And indeed
it did appear both wide and deep when seen thus
in the uncertain flame of the lantern. But at last
Goundran wiped the sweat from his brow:

‘Here, give me the bitch;’ he said, ‘all is ready.’

So Mirao who had trodden that Provencal earth
ever since she had been a rough, lumbering puppy;
who had trodden it in gladness, who had trodden it
in pain, was now to find her rest in that earth; and
doubtless, had she been able to speak, her courageous
old heart would have chosen none other. Thus,
as frequently happens in this world of ours which
appears to possess strange concepts of logic, Mirdo
was more honoured and cared for in death than she
was during all her long, faithful lifetime. Had not
Goundran and Anfos borne her through their own
town, and she cleanly sewn up in a shroud of canvas?
Had they not dug a grave large enough for a man in
such obdurate ground that their brows had been
sweating? Had not Eusebe permitted her to lie on
the boundary of his cherished and profitable vine¬
yards? And had not J6us^ agreed to it all, while
dreading the ridicule of his neighbours? Yes, assuredly
she was more cared for in death, having justified her
existence by dying.

This then was the funeral and burial of Mirfeio,
the gaunt yellow bitch, who eight years before had
brought forth her large litter of lusty puppies in the
sawdust and shavings of the carpenter’s shop belong-
158

ing to Jouse Ben^dit — in great anguisli and joy she
had brought forth her puppies.

§5

The next morning Christophe said to his mother:
‘Here is all that is left of the ointment which I stole
from your cupboard to rub on Mirdo’s sores.’ And
he waited, quaking a little, for her answer.

Marie was scrubbing the kitchen table. She looked
up in surprise: ‘What is that, my son? But how did
you get it? The cupboard was locked.’

‘I found your key and unlocked it,’ said Christophe.

She dried the soap from her hands on her apron,
as was always her habit when hurried or anxious.
After which she glanced into the grimy jar that her
son was holding out for inspection. There was scarcely
a quarter of its contents left, and that quarter was
stuck thickly with stiff, yellow hairs.

‘You had better throw it away,’ she told him. Then
she said, but quite gently: ‘You were wrong to
deceive me. Am I so stem and unkind a mother that
you could not have asked me to give you the grease?
Is it likel^r that I would have refused your request?
Another time come and ask, pichounet. And now
kiss me ... I am glad that you have spoken the
tmth. Eh bien, we will try to think no more about it.’

So Christophe kissed his mother on both cheeks,
realizing that she had completely forgotten her
refusal to give him the ointment in tiie past, and this
because she was now very weary.

Then he sought out his father: ‘I have stolen,’ he
informed him: ‘I stole the ointment from mother’s
cupboard in order to cure MirHo’s sores.’

Jous^ looked up from the plank he was planing,
and his eyes were unusually soft and kind: ‘Have you
told your mother?’

159

Christophe nodded his head.

‘And what did she say?’ rx., t ,

^That I ought to have asked her • • • | hat 1 ought
to have asked her to give me the grease.

Jouse grunted. ‘Well then, I say just the same thing.’
.\nd he turned once again to the plank he was planing.

That evening Christophe went to confession, and
this was indeed a tremendous ordeal, for he dared
not hope that Monsieur le Cure would be as lenient
to him as his parents: ‘Give me your blessing. Father,’
he began, as he knelt on the hard little wooden shelf,

‘I have sinned. . . .’

The Cure blessed him and waited.

Then Christophe plunged desperately into his
recital, sparing himself and the Cure no detail, not
excepting his loss of faith in Saint Loup and his^ angry
thoughts of that warrior-bishop. And while he
accused himself of his sins in an agitated and some¬
what hoarse whisper, he unconsciously touched a long
disused chord in the heart of his tired and south-
drugged listener. For the Cure had once been quite
fond of dogs, having had a dog of his own in his boy¬
hood. Bobby, he had called it, because at that time
he had been not a little proud of his English, and now
Bobby had suddenly come into his mind — a plucky,
upstanding, curly retriever.

Said Christophe: ‘I think I had better say also,
that I promised Saint Loup to ask for a penance which
would be very hard. I much love bouillabaisse, per¬
haps you would rather I did not eat it — though I
do not think I love it quite so much now;’ his voice
trembled a little; ‘I do not think that I love it so much
since the death of Mireio. But I made that promise
to Saint Loup when I told him that I would not go
to confession just then in case ... in case . .
Christophe hesitated, ‘in case you should tell me to
give back thepintment.’
i6o

The Curb’s lips twitched very slightly in the dark¬
ness: Ts that all, my child?’

‘Yes, all except lliis: I laid my hands on MirHo’s
poor head and I prayed that God would be kind and
take her . . . Then she died . . . and now I am
afraid of my hands.’

‘That is presumption, my child,’ said the Cure.

And he went on to add that whenever God chose
he could end the lives of all mortal creatures, so that
Christophe must not be a foolish boy and presume to
think that his own weak hands had caused the death
of the dying Mirfeio. And that if he had wanted the
ointment for the dog he should have gone straight
to his mother and told her, because it was always
wrong to take things which belonged to others
without their permission; but that nevertheless his
intention had been kind —he had wanted to do
MirHo a kindness. These and other very. similar
remarks he made, and all the while he was thinking
of Bobby. ‘Bien,’ he concluded, ‘if you have con¬
fessed every sin that you find yourself able to remem¬
ber, then make a good act of contrition, my son; and
for your penance say three Hail Marys in honour of
the Holy Trinity. And now I will give you absolution.’

When it had been given Christophe thanked the
priest.

‘Say a little prayer for me,’ murmured the Cure.

So Christophe went forth absolved of his sins, and
having received the Cure’s blessing. The light
lay golden over Saint Loup, golden over the red-
tiled Provengal roofs that covered the houses at such
queer angles, golden over the warm and tideless
sea, golden over the stern but protective mountains
— for as those who have been to that town will
remember, the light is generally golden in the even¬
ing. Yet although he was now feeling brand new
throughout, the result of so good and careful a con-

L i6i

fession, although the Cure had been very kind,
quite as lenient and kind, indeed,^ as his parents,
Christophe sighed as he turned his steps towards
home, because in his heart he was terribly lonely;
and because when he tried hard to think about God
and the saints he kept thinking about Mirao.

§6

In his study the Cure sat pretending to read. He
was tired by his evening of hearing confessions —
they were always the same in the town of Saint Loup
which, praised be the saints, had not many great
sinners. Yes, but always the same little ugly sins —
sloth, greed, the neglect or the scamping of prayers,
the uncharitable thought, the injurious word, the
absence of Christian love for a neighbour. Although
sometimes, it was true, there were graver trans¬
gressions, bred of overmuch liquor and overmuch
simshine — those shatteringly sudden lapses from
grace, which at first had so greatly perturbed the
Cur6.

‘Alas,’ he murmured, ‘pauvre humanity. How
immeasurably distant we all are from heaven.’
•Then he thought: ‘Christophe Benedit and his dog
— I remember that he said something to me about
it. That was ... let me see . . . quite a long
time ago. I fully intended to speak to J6us^, but
somehow what with my parish and the heat . . . And
how odd that business about the boy’s hands, about
laying his hands on the creature’s head — very odd.
And what curious eyes he has; they haunted me one
day, I could not forget them . . . Ah, mais non, I
too become imaginative, Christophe is just like
every other boy, he is constantly in and out of mis¬
chief with Jan; all the same, I am glad I was a little
severe regarding those foolish fancies of his — one
162

is always afraid that the young may grow morbid.
Then the Cure yawned loudly; he was really tired
out, for the wind was blowing again from La Crau,
which invariably depressed and fatigued him: ‘Alas,’
he repeated, shaking his head as he closed the book
that he was finding so dull, ‘how immeasurably dis¬
tant we all are from heaven!’

163

G oundran’s life had hitherto ran very smoothly.

A hard worker and of a saving disposition, he
had managed to avoid financial troubles. Both his
fishing vessels were free from debt so could hold their
sails figh in fair or foul weather, breasting the waves
as proudly as they pleased, which was thanks to their
careful and thrifty master. Moreover he possessed
the placid temper that went with as yet unawakened
senses, and had thus avoided those sudden squalls
which were apt to blow up at the port over women.
And if he missed something of the light of the moon;
missed the warm, soft trickle of wine down his gullet;
missed the warm, soft weight of a girl on his knees,
and the hard throb of blood on those nights in summer
when tempers were short while knives could be
long; missed the shrill, teasing tunes of the little
violinist — if he missed all these things he was yet
content, being quite unconscious of what he was
missing. Small wonder then that his well-ordered
life had hitherto ran with unusual smoothness.

But a few weeks after the burial of MirHo there
occurred the death of another old creature, for
Mathilde died sitting up in her chair, died as neatly
and cleanly as she had lived — no illness, no pain, no
chemist, no doctor. Yet her going, so simple a thing
in itself, brought about a most mighty msturbance
for Goundran, since what was to become of the
164

youthful Elise who was now left without a single
relation?

Elise, who had been devoted to her aunt, must
naturally do a great deal of weeping. Goundran
would find his own eyes full of tears, and would rack
his brains for something to say that might be expected
to give consolation. Mathilde had bequeathed her
small house to the girl, as well as her tiny personal
fortune, but Elise was too young to live all alone,
such a thing would have outraged every convention.
Goundran, of course, found new lodgings at once,
having sent in a kind-hearted female neighbour, but
the woman could not remain very long; it certainly
was a distressing situation.

Goundran said to this neighbour: ‘I am deeply
perplexed. ... I have known Elise since the days of
her childhood, yet I cannot decide what she ought
to do. . . . Perhaps you will advise?’

‘Mais oui,’ nodded the neighbour, ‘it is perfectly
clear what Elise ought to do, what every young girl
ought to do — get married.’

‘Have I not said so already,’ he sighed, ‘but she
seems completely indifferent to men; as you know
she refused that fine fellow, Bertrand.’

Then he went to Marie and sought her advice:
‘The girl has not even a distant cousin — it is sad to
be so much alone in the world — do you think that
perhaps she might enter a convent? Do you think
that she possibly has a vocation?’ For by now he was
really at his wits’ end.

‘I think her vocation is marriage,’ smiled Marie.

So off he must go in search of Jouse who, as ill luck
would have it, was completing a bed for a couple
just entering into wedlock; and Jouse laid down his
tools and looked wise while he listened to Goimdran
with careful attention.

After a little: ‘I think,’ remarked Jdusfe, ‘that Elise

165

is much in need of a husband. A young girl with a
house and fortune of her own yet no man to protect
her . . . pecaire, the poor child! She may soon be
exposed to God knows what danger. You have asked
my opinion; very well, there it is.’ And he stared
rather meaningly at his friend.

‘Now why is he staring like that?’ fretted Goundran.

As he left, Eusebe was standing in his doorway:
‘So Mathilde has at last joined the saints!’ he said
blithely, ‘And what is to happen to her pretty young
niece who is not yet, I take it, quite ready for heaven?
Tell me, what is to happen to that pretty young niece?’

Goundran shook his head: ‘Ah, that is the problem,
and she naturally turns to me for help. . . .’

‘I do not doubt that she does!’ winked Eusebe.

Ignoring the wink which might, after all, have
resulted from nothing more gross than an eyelash,
Goundran went on to pour forth his woes: ‘But how
can one hope to cure the child’s sorrow? Mathilde
was a mother to the little Elise, and now all day long
she does nothing but weep, and when I am near her
she weeps more loudly, so that I cannot think how
to act. . . .’

‘Then you must be a cretin,’ remarked Eusebe.
‘There is only one cure for a virgin who weeps, quite
a simple cure — her immediate deflowering.’

Goundran turned and left him in angry disgust — a
lascivious pig of a fellow, Eusebe!

Yet wherever he went Goundran heard the same
thing expressed in less unconventional language; the
girl ought to marry and marry at once; what she needed
was a strong and protective husband. And every
one seemed to be talking at him as though he were to
blame, which was surely unfair. Had he not taken his
friend to the house, the excellent Bertrand who was
such a fine captain? Had he not taken him many
times, always doing his best to egg on the courtship?

166

And had Bertrand not wished to marry Elise? But
yes, he had wished to marry Elise! Then why, in
God’s name, had she been so stubborn? If those two
had only been safely married, all this miserable worry
could not have arisen.

But the worry augmented by leaps and bounds, for
poor Goundran must learn that a lion at bay is a
lamb when compared with an amorous woman who,
instead of a child, has conceived a grievance,
Madame Roustan had waited more than eight years,
but now at long last she could take her revenge
through the spreading of purely fictitious scandal.
It was easy enough, since who can be certain of what
transpires in the house of a neighbour? Goundran
had shared a roof with the youthful Elise, he being a
man, she being a woman, though as Madame
Roustan was careful to insist, Elise was more sinned
against than sinning. A crippled old aunt almost
totally blind had naturally not proved an adequate
protection; why, they might have made love right
under her nose — they had done, according to Madame
Roustan! But-what would you? the girl was as ripe
as a peach on a southern slope, while as for Goundran.

. . . Ah, well, there it was, and aU terribly sad; but
Elise was more sinned against than sinning.

At first Goundran could not believe his ears, it
seemed too monstrous a thing for credence; however,
before many days had passed, his ears were burning
with indignation. Yet what could he do? It was like
a pest that once thoroughly started, must spread its
infection, and quite soon the story had reached the
port, where it promptly afforded immense entertain¬
ment, The men from the tartanes grew merry indeed.
Ho, ho, a dark horse, a most crafty devil! No wonder he
went out so seldom at night — Mathilde’s house had
provided sufficient amusement. Sacr^ Nom d’un Nom,
and he to pretend that he could not see the attraction

167

of women! Oh, le fourbe! And then they must
start to guffaw while sharing the yarn with their
boon companions. Nor would any of them listen to
Goundran’s denials for to them he now seemed a
very fine fellow. Oh, le fourbe! The jests would fall
thick and fast, growing more and more turgid with
each firesh remonstance, so that in the end Goundran
held his peace, for what was the use of wasting one’s
breath when nothing could silence their wit but a
knifing?

As for Eusebe, he was so vastly tickled that he grew
aggressively cordial to Gotmdran, popping out of
his shop like a Jack-in-the-box whenever he glimpsed
the unfortunate fisher; ‘Come and drink to your dear
little fiiend;’ he would urge, and then he might start
his intolerable winking, or give Goundran a knowing
dig in the ribs, or, worse still, make a gesture pregnant
with meaning. It seemed finiitless for Goundran to
turn his broad back and stalk on as a sign of contempt
and aversion, Eusebe’s skin could be thicker than his
hides when he did not desire to become offended,
so that finally Goundran avoided the street, unless
he were going to the Benedit’s, and would take his
strolls in another direction.

There were people however, quite a number of
them, who looked far less lightly upon moral lapses;
and who, whether they had believed that Mathilde
was enleagued with the Lord or enleagued with Satan,
were shocked at the thought of the youthful Elise
having suffered so callous and base a betrayal; and
these people were able to make themselves felt to
some purpose, when mustered by Madame Roustan,
Goundran shrugged his shoulders and went his way,
tel^g himself that since he was guiltless the accu¬
sation must speedily die, done to death by the very
nature of its venom. Still, being a flrien^y and
peaceable man he valued not only peace but friend-
168

ship, and the knowledge that so many now wished
him ill was making his heart grow increasingly
troubled. Indeed he became very deeply depressed,
falling into a kind of grim melancholy.

Yet two friends he had who never for a moment
mistn:isted his honesty and his honour —Marie and
Jouse remained quite unmoved in their faith. When
questioned regarding the scandal Marie said always
much the same tiring: ‘Goundran is the godfather
of our Christdphe; we choose him because he is up¬
right and good; one has only to see him to know that
he is good.’ Then Jouse would nod his large head
many times; ‘Mais oui, long ago we discovered his
goodness.’ But alone with his wife he would be less
restrained, for Jouse was bitterly angry ^th his
sister and could scarcely tolerate her in his house,
averse though he was to family ruptures. ‘Do I not
know the woman?’ he would rage, ‘C^spi, I do. All
my life I have known her. If Goundran is Christophe’s
father-in-god then Germaine is surely his mother-in-
the-devil. A vicious-tongued, lustful old hypocrite
with her weekly confessions and her Comtesse de
Berac and her: “my son is going to enter the priesthood;
my son is going to the Grand Seminaire at V ersailles.”
Her son, well, I pity a boy who has such a mother
as Germaine. Quelle putain!’

And although Marie greatly disliked gross words, she
nevertheless forbore to reprove him.

§2

At last Goimdran managed to muster the courage
to go off and seek out Elise one morning: ‘I pra^ you,
leave us;’ he said to the neighbour, who now viewed
him with marked hostility, having recently visited
Madame Roustan.

‘If you need me you have but to call, pauvre

169

enfant;’ she remarked with a threatening glance at
Goundran.

Elise was darning a black cotton glove, but she
laid it aside as Goundran approached her. And now
there she sat with her tremulous hands clasped tightly
in order to still their trembling; and now there she
sat with her honest blue eyes turned amdously in
Goundran’s direction.

He said, diving head foremost into the subject lest
by waiting his small stock of courage should dwindle,
he said: ‘There is something we two must discuss;
but first I will ask a most serious question. Have I
ever wronged you, my little Elise?’

‘No. How could you possibly wrong me?’ she asked
him.

‘There are ways. . . .’ he hesitated and flushed.
Did she know? Had she heard of the scandalous
gossip? ‘There are ways . .. or so it would seem. . . .’
he stammered, for her innocence made him feel
ashamed when he thought of Eusebe and the men
from the tartanes.

‘I know of nothing in you that is wrong — that could
ever be wrong,’ said the youthful Elise; and the blue
of her eyes became so profound that it suddenly made
Goundran think of the ocean. ‘No, nothing in you
could be wrong;’ she repeated.

Then he noticed the shabby black cotton glove
with a very big hole in the tip of one finger, and some¬
how that glove brought a lump to his throat, because
as it lay there it looked so humble: ‘Surely your birth¬
day is to-morrow, Elise? I will buy you a pair of kid
gloves,’ he promised. He had come there to warn her
of what was afoot, very tactfully, very discreetly to
warn her, but instead he found Mmself holding her
hand: ‘Oh, the poor little hand, so cold, so cold . . .
and so thin, Elise. Oh, the poor little hand!’ Which
was not at all what he had meant to say, since it
170

certainly did not sound like a warning. And after
a minute he must start to reproach her: ‘Why, oh
why, could you not have married that Bertrand? A
fine man, a fine sailor and my very good friend;
handsome too, and with money saved in the bank.
And just see what has come of your great foolishness,
here you are unmarried and in consequence lonely.
God knows I did everything in my power. . . . Ai!
las, why could you not have married that Bertrand?’

‘Because’ said Elise — and wonder of wonders, her
voice did not shake and her hands ceased to tremble —
‘because there is only one man in the world, yes, only
one man in the world I will marry. And if he will
not take me I shall dedicate all the rest of my life to
the blessed Virgin. For surely it is better to remain
alone than to mate without love —is that not so,
Goundran?’

Now whether it was the kind-hearted Saint Joseph
who is known to be very propitious to marriage, or
whether it was Our Lady herself who may well have
been grieved by the girl’s situation, or whether it was
that Elise’s blue eyes had suddenly made Goundran
think of the ocean, who shall say? But the fact does
undoubtedly remain that an urgent new longing
welled up within him, a longing to love, to possess,
to protect, to justify his fine well-tempered manhood,
and he said:

‘I would like you to tell me his name. Who is it
that you would be willing to marry?’

She answered gravely: ‘His name is Goundran.’

‘No, no!’ he exclaimed, stiU a little afiraid of be¬
traying his faithful and lifelong allegiance, ‘No, no,
Elise! Why, I am thirty-six — in another few years
Goundran be forty, and the sea and the south take
a pretty big toll. If you look at me closely — closely,
EUse —you will see that already my skin becomes
wrinkled.’ And he turned himself qxiickly and faced

171

the light. ‘Come, stand up and look closer, my girl,’

he commanded. . .

She obeyed and stood gazing mto his face which to
her seemed a thing enveloped by glory, so that she
thought: ‘In the image of God — ah, but yes, in the
image of God created.’ Aloud she said: ‘What are
the years to love? Love is stronger than time, stronger
even than death.’ Which some may think showed
that she was indeed youthful. Then she laid both her
hands on his broad, neat shoulders: ‘I have tried to
explain very often,’ she told him; ‘I have tried to
explain by making small cakes in the shape of a heart.
Do you not remember?’ And even as she spoke she
was greatly amazed at her own unexpected courage

and calmness. ■ , •

‘Is it possible. . . .?’ he murmured. ‘Is it possible,
Elise, that those small heart-shaped cakes were
intended for me?’ And his voice sounded hushed and
almost awed, yes, almost awed because of those cakes
— or was it because of what they had stood for?

After this neither spoke for quite a long while.
Goundran was once again holding her hand, but now
he was lifting the fingers one by one absent-mindedly,
scarcely seeing her hand or her any more, so hard
was he thinking. . .

Then: ‘Goundran, will you marry me?’ said Elise.

He looked up and caught her abruptly in his arms:
‘Elise, will you marry me, dear?’ said Goundran.

§3

They were joined together very quietly and simply,
for Goundran had wanted a simple wedding, and
besides, there was always the death of Mathilde.
Only Marie and Jous^ and Christophe were present
in addition to Jan — now a server at Mass — and of
course the indispensable Curd.

17a

The Mass ended, they walked back again to the
house that had sheltered them for years, and they
walked arm in arm. Goundran was rather imusually
flushed and Elise very pale; in all other respects,
however, they seemed like an old married couple —
so collected, so unhurried, and Elise’s grey dress so
staid with its black velvet belt and white collar.

But that night the lover and lord of the sea became
lover and lord of a mortal woman. And he found it
unexpectedly gracious to rest with his head on her
firm young bosom; to be one with her ardent humanity;
for when ^1 was said and done Goimdran was human.

§4

Jouse was well pleased with Goundran’s marriage.
It seemed to him wonderfully right and natural that
so comely, and stalwart and honest a fellow should
mate and, God willing, produce many children.

‘Mais oui,’ he remar&d to Marie the next evening
as he fondled a hand grown rough in his service;
‘mais oui, marriage sometimes brings sorrow, Marioun
— sorrow and anxiety, that I admit;’ and he glanced
across at le tout petit Loup, ‘but it also brings comfort
along with the sorrow, for a burden that is shared
between two loving hearts only serves to bind them
more closely together. I rejoice that Goundran has
wedded Elise, and may she make him as brave a wife
as my Marioun has made her Jouse!’

So saying he pressed his lips to her palm, a thing
that he had not done for years, not indeed since the
days of their earliest mating. And she blushed,
recalling those more ardent days, while their eyes
as they met became heavy with memories, for this
wedding had made them think of their own, so tliat
now many long-forgotten emotions looked out from
their faithful, toil-strained eyes — curiosity, reverence,

173

diffidence, fear; but above all the imperative summons
of life, the urge to beget in triumph through pain, a
primitive, brutal, tenacious urge. Aye, and the joy
of enduring pain. . . . Thus they saw each other
across the years as courageous, forceful, and pregnant
with meaning. And standing there they forgot their
children in tliose irresistible thoughts of creation;
forgot Loup who was playing at dominoes with his
brother beside the lamp on the table, forgot Christophe
the splendid first-fruit of their love, the seed of whose
body they had sown in passion and prayer and in
hope that had long been deferred — even him they
forgot because they remembered.

But presently Loup must begin to cough: ‘Maman,
my chest hurts —it hurts!’ he said loudly; and he
swept the dominoes onto the floor, T will not play
any longer, Christophe. You cheat. Many times I
have seen you cheat!’ For le tout petit Loup loathed
the pain in his chest and must seek to wound some one,
himself being wounded.

Christophe frowned; then he noticed his mother’s
eyes that had once more grown pleading, tired and
maternal. He wanted to hit le tout petit Loup, to
give him a mighty hard clout on the ear for the spite¬
ful, bad-tempered child that he was, always meanly
untruthful when he was losing. But instead he went
down on his hands and knees and collected the
dominoes under the table, for what else could one do
when beneath it all one perceived the infinite pathos
of the creature, and the pleading that lay in his
mother’s eyes? Nothing, except to swear softly to one’s
self as one groped about:

‘Samipabieunei’ swore Christophe.

§5

Towards Christmas Goundran arrived one morning
to announce his intention of doing up his house: ‘For,*
174

said Goundran, looking important yet sheepish, ‘you
see how it is: when a woman is married she needs
many things that a girl does not need — many little
new comforts about the home. I would wish to provide
my wife with these comforts. And then I would like
the whole place to look gayer. I had thought a nice
pink both inside and out; the walls are all terribly
stained and dirty. And the paint of the shutters
ought to be green, a bright, cheerful green like the
vines in spring.’

Jous^ nodded: ‘That can surely be done,’ he told
him.

‘Very well, then, I want you to come down at once
and consult with Elise regarding the colours. There
is also the question of cupboards and so on. There
are also the doors that the wind has jarred, and the rats
have devoured the boards in our bedroom, and Elise
says we need a new water butt. Ah, yes, there are
many small things that we need — but I myself wiU
help with the paintwork as the weather is too rough
to go to sea.’

‘It is also too dusty to paint,’ warned J6us^.

But his client was firm, they must start at once, for
Goundran was childishly fond of painting.

Meanwhile Christophe, who was planing a very dull
plank, looked up from his work with envious interest,
and seeing this Goundran evolved an idea: ‘Why
should not Christophe assist?’ he asked Jouse. ‘He is
just going to start the Christmas vacation and the,
devil finds work for all idle hands. Is that not so,
my hefty godson? Well, what do you say, shall we
colour the walls like pink roses in honomr of my little
Elise? Shall we paint all the woodwork green like
the vines? Shall we, in fact, make the house very clean
and ourselves very dirty? Aliens, what do you say?’

‘I say yes —but a million times yes!’ exclaimed
Christophe.

175

‘And suppose I say no — what then?’Jduse enquired.
But this he did only to tease the boy, and Christophe
knew well that his father was teasing.

Thus the day arrived when Christophe appeared
in a very old pair of fisherman’s trousers rolled well
up in order to fit his legs and gathered into the waist
by a strap which Elise had managed to find in the
attic. A sail-cloth blouse took the place of his shirt,
the sleeves having been cut to above his elbows, and
he carried a bucket of distemper so pink and so foamy
that he suddenly wanted to eat it. The bucket, in
its turn, must carry a brush of such magnitude that
the distemper flowed over; a downright, broad-
beamed, workmanlike brush with soft thick bristles
and a stout wooden handle. Thus armed he attacked
the sitting room; slap, slap, dip and slap; slap and
dip, dip and slap, while the rosy distemper ran back
from the brush and splashed onto the floor off his
dripping fingers.

‘Santo d’or!’ sighed Elise, ‘and upstairs in our bed¬
room my Goundran works with scarcely less vigour.
The floor boards will soon be far pinker than the
wsills, and already there are big daubs of pink on
the bed. God be praised that I thought of covering
the mattress! Ail las, you men when you wish to be
useful make more mess than a woman would make
in a lifetime. You are careless, you men, as I tell my
own man.’

But her lips were smiling indulgently, and Chris¬
tophe must try to swell out his chest at hearing himself
thus coupled with Goundran, and must grin and shrug
his shotilders and spit, then apply his huge brush with
so manly a flourish that a splash of distemper flew
into his eye which he rubbed with a dripping but
diligent finger.

Said Elise, displaying true feminine tact; ‘If it will
not disturb your work for a moment, I have a clean
176’

handkerchief here in my pocket — but I do not want
to disturb your work. All the same — if you care to
come to the window. . . .*

So Christophe held up his face to Elise who first
moistened the handkerchief with her saliva, then
carefully cleansed his long-suffering eye.

‘I thank you, Elise;’ he said very politely, and
stooping he touched her hand with his lips, pre¬
cisely as he had seen Goundran do when, one day,
she had bound a cut on his finger.

But fine as it was to distemper the walls, it was
even finer to paint the woodwork — although Goun¬
dran was selfish about the front door: ‘No; I wish to
do that by myself,’ he insisted. ‘You shall do the lower
shutters, but not the door.’ And he handed Christophe
a new pot of paint. ‘Do not waste it, enfantounet, it
costs!’ he cautioned.

Oh, the smell and the gloss and the green of the
paint, and the way it slid over the battered old shutters!
Christophe was happier now as he worked than he
had been since the death of Mir^io. The dust rose in
clouds, for the port was being swept by a vicious and
very persistent mistral; and the dust made a rash come
out on the paint which, however, did but prolong the
pleasure, since he merely added coat upon coat,
applying them always thicker and thicker. One thing
only gave him cause for regret — Jan was too much
engrossed by his books to take part in this orgy of
house decoration. He had said rather steml'jr: ‘I
cannot lose time: I must think of the Cur6 and
Madame de Berac.’ And then he had shown Chris¬
tophe a rosary that the Comtesse de Berac had sent
him for Christmas. ‘When one has obligations as I
have,’ he had said, ‘one cannot lose time dabbing other
people’s shutters.’ Christophe had certainly felt
impressed, for those beads had looked very grand and
expensive. Moreover Jan was quite right about Time:

M 177

it did seem incredibly easy to lose it. It was here, it
was gone, and before you could turn round. With
every full chime of the church clock went an hour of
the splendid and memorable Christmas vacation.
Strive though he might Christophe knew very well
that his painting would have to be left imfiiushed,
and that Goundran would then take over his job.

‘Time is thieving and stingy and jealous,’ thought
Christophe, trying to ignore that relentless clock; ‘it
is angry because I am feeling so happy.’

But more jealous than Time was le tout petit Loup;
yes, indeed, he was far more angry and jealous:
‘Why may I not also have fun?’ was his question;
and there he would stand in the wind-swept street with
a scowl on his brow and his hands in his pockets.
‘You paint very badly indeed!’ he would shout. ‘If
I had that brush I could show you something!’

So one afternoon Christophe gave him the brush,
after which he immediately snatched the paint-pot and
proceeded to breathe rather hard as he worked,
feeling anxious lest they should doubt his skill and
remind him of his incessant bragging; and he breathed
in the noxious fumes of the paint which very soon
brought on his troublesome asthma. Tears sprang
to the eyes of le tout petit Loup, but he rubbed them
away and continued painting; a lump rose in the
throat of le tout petit Loup but he swallowed it down
and continued painting; phlegm worried the chest
of le tout petit Loup, producing a loud and most
painful wheezing, so that Christophe who heard it
besought him to stop, but he shook his small head and
continued painting. In the end Goundran took the
paint-brush away, and Elise marched him firmly off
to the parlour, whereupon he was promptly sick on
the floor, for the fumes had also affected his stomach.

‘All the same,’ bragged le tout petit Loup the next
morning as he managed to nibble a morsel of break-

178

fast, ‘all the same I paint better than Christophe does.
When he paints he leaves nothing but ridges and
bubbles. My work is like Goundran’s, all glossy and
smooth.’

*Mais oui, you arc probably right,’ consoled
Christophe.

179

Chapter xiv

§i

T he religiously minded in the town of Saint Loup
were not only prayerful but extremely busy, for
presently would come the month of May when their
offspring would make their First Communion.

For the past seven months a feud had been raging
between those who agreed with the Holy Father —
the saintly and simple Pius X, who argued that as his
Lord loved little children, Communion might well be
received very young —and those who agreed with
the conservative clergy who argued that until a child
was eleven or thereabouts, it could not receive its
Lord with the requisite understanding; an opinion
which was also held by the Cure. And thus it had hap*
pened that Christophe and Jan had not taken advan¬
tage of the Quam Singulari, but would make their
First Communion in May when both of them would
be just over eleven.

Endless candles now burnt at the shrine of Saint
Loup: ‘O golden saint, make our dear children
worthy.’ Endless candles were lighted for the Mother
of God: ‘O Mary Virgin, thyself a mother, make
our sons acceptable to thy Son.’ In this "svise prayed
many a mother these days, for the women always
found time to pray in spite of their arduous household
duties, whereas the men must smoke at off times,
and must stretch their long legs as they basked in the
sunshine or drank a small glass with Mere Mdlanie.
But what would you? That was the way with all men,
i8o

their wives must make their peace for them with
heaven! Except upon days of obligation, the most
that the men ever did — and they fathers — was to
clump into church looking awkward and large; and
then, having signed themselves with the cross, to
clump out again and light cigarettes — still, that
was obviously better than nothing, and as Marie
remarked with some truth to a neighbour who com¬
plained that husbands were not famous at prayers:
‘After all, it is they who earn money for our candles.’

In the ancient houses had begun to appear many
yards of white net and of fine white muslin. Sewing
machines tapped and whirred in the evenings — one
could hear them as one walked past the open windows.
And, as likely as not, bending over her task, her work-
stained hands sharply contrasting with its whiteness,
a woman would be seaming the muslin dress in which
her daughter would kneel at the altar —the gentle
and innocent wedding dress to be worn by a youthful
bride of the spirit. But the veil, ah, that must be made
by hand with a prayer for every so many stitches. The
dress might be altered and worn again — since needs
must when a household was short of money —but
the veil would be carefully laid away wrapped in
sheets of elegant pink tissue paper, with perhaps a
few sprigs of lavender between, or some petals trodden
brown by the priest who had carried the monstrance
at Corptis Cliristi. The veil would be shown to inti¬
mate friends, to relations who came on a family visit;
and, who knows, perhaps to the as-yet-imborn:
‘Vois done, petite Ang^e, le voile qu’avait ta maman
pom: sa Premiexe Communion. Mais oui , . . eUe
aussi a ete toute jeune. . . .’ And the lavender
sprigs grown bare and scentless, and the petals grown
brittle and dropping to powder; for alas, time has
little respect at best, and none at aU when we become
sentimental.

i8i

But it must not be thought that the mothers of
Saint Loup were guiltless of less exalted emotions;
no, indeed, there was much heart-burning these
days regarding the texture of net and muslin, the
quality and merits of white suMe shoes, and the
price of the white cotton roses for wreaths. Above all
did the faces under the wreaths very frequently give
occasion for pride, that subtle and most trusty weapon
of Satan. Thus already, although it was now only
March, tittle-tattle and gossip were rife between neigh¬
bours: ‘Ai! las, that the poor little Rosseline should
suffer so much from those very disfiguring pimples;
to wear white a child must have a good skin —my
Sophie, thank God, has always possessed one.’ Or:
‘That daughter of Madame Perron’s grows fat, a real
pity it is, yes, a real disaster. And I hear that her
mother complains of the price of net. “Ah, mais non,”
I said to my husband, “if one cannot spend two sous
upon our dear Lord. . . . Imagine such a thing,
for the child’s First Communion!” ’ Or: ‘I was
astonished to remark that the Girals were buying
those cheap canvas shoes for their daughters instead of
white suede — both the girls have big feet which
already is surely a great disadvantage. Our Celine
has got very small feet and hands; all the same I
would not risk those cheap shoes, they would make
even her tiny feet look enormous.’

And so the old Devil had occasion to smile more
than once as he groomed his tail in the sunshine, or
polished his hooves with the snippets of muslin he had
found cast away in some family dustbin, or pricked
up a furry and impious ear as he strolled by a gossip¬
ing group at a corner. But meanwhile the weather
was warm and most pleasant, and that blueness of
sky and of sea and of mountains wliich is such an
integral part of Provence, appeared bluer than usual,
and so did the incense that rose at High Mass, and so
182

did the eyes of Jous^ whenever they rested on Christo-
phe — for Christophe was growing apace these days
and would surely become a fair, mighty man; yes,
a fair-skiimed and mighty man Uke his father.

§2

One night Jouse sat up long over accounts, frowning
and grumbling and chewing his pencil. Goundran
always paid and paid handsomely, but others did not
— a most tiresome business. That couple who had
ordered the marital bed, had they paid? Not at all!
They had taken their pleasure and much of it, if
Jous^ was any judge, yet the good, honest oak of
their couch went unpaid for. And then there was that
new counter for Germaine; she would cling to her
money till the very last minute. There was also that
fowl-house up at the farm —oh, but that was all
light, they were trustworthy people who never kept
a man waiting for his bill; in a week or so now they
woxild pay for that fowl-house. Ali, but Loup . . .
the chemist, the doctor, the food ... so much
butter and milk to make him grow fatter, so much
bouillon to make his weak limbs grow strong; and the
jellies carefully flavoured with wine because his small
appetite had to be tempted. Ail las, ail las, le pauvre
tout petit Loup, coughing and wheezing and complain¬
ing of his chest and his stomach and his meals and his
home and his brother, yet doing so remarkably well
at school — as sharp as a razor he was, Ae imp. And
now if he was not learning to carve! His fingers were
fer more crafty than Christophe’s. Christophe was
good at big, simple jobs — the sawing of planks, the
hacking of timber. He used his tools as to the manner
born, with precision, with strength, with foresight,
with knowledge. But le tout petit Loup possessed
some thin g that he lacked, a kind of ingenious imper-

183

tinence, which made him not only clever but danng,
so that he had gone to his father’s prized hoard and
had dragged out a Gothic panel to copy — the im¬
pudence of it, a child of his age! But, pecaire! he
had not copied it badly.

How totally different they were, the two boys —
since their earliest infancy they had been different;
and this difference was very much marked now at
school, for Christophe was not at all a good student.
Christophe was so stupid about learning from boob
that the things had begun to puzzle the master. Of
comrse, he, Jouse, had never liked books, yet he could
not remember that when he was at school liis lessons
had been so difficult to him. Monsieur Roland
declared that by word of mouth the boy could learn
quickly, but not from print. This was grave, for an
overworked master lacked time and patience to make
an exiception of Christophe, and already his brother
had passed him in the class — oh, that imp, he was
surely as sharp as a razor! Yes, Marie was right,
Loup was cleverer than Jan in spite of the Grand
Seminaire at Versailles and that sacree Madame la
Gomtesse de Berac!

Would Germaine pay soon? How soon would she
pay? He really must settle down to accounts and stop
thinking about less important matters — Christophe
would be making his hirst Communion and clothes
had to be bought for the solemn event. . . . How
soon would that Germaine pay for her counter?
Germaine had received a measurement card sent from
Paris by Madame la Gomtesse de Berac —she was
showing the thing all over the town — Madame la
Gomtesse would give Jan his suit — a fine suit he would
have for his First Communion. Sacrd Nom; then
Christophe should have a fine suit! Sacrd Nom, he
should have a suit finer than Jan’s — a count’s suit
he should have, a duke’s suit, a prince’s! He, Jduse,

184

inew of a shop in Marseille where they kept ziU such
things — a magnificent shop, frequented by the chil¬
dren of prosperous merchants. Their cut was superb,
their materials glossy, their prices enough to make a
man blink. He, Jous^, had blinked but had then
used his eyes and had seen those rows of wax figures
in the windows — lifelike they had been, they had
almost moved, boys of Christophe’s age too with
real hair on their heads; yes, and actually with real
rings on their fingers! But that was not all; he had
passed there in May and had stood before one par¬
ticular window — little girls m beautifully soft muslin
frocks with wreaths and long veils and white ivory
prayer books; little boys in immaculate black broad¬
cloth suits, flottant ties, and with white favours worn
on their sleeves —and especially had he observed
their shoes, so rich, so unserviceable, so useless.
Elegant black patent shoes they had worn —and
that window had been labelled: ‘premiere com¬
munion.’

Bien, his Christophe was going to have one of those
suits. He should have it if the devil ran away with
the business; if Saint Loup himself stumped out of
his niche in order to counsel economy — it his name¬
sake had to go without bouillon! Ah, mais non, not
that . . . le pauvre tout petit Loup! All the same
he was going to buy one of the suits from that window
labelled: ‘premiere communion.’

Beside Christophe, Jan would cut a mean figure, in
spite of those costly clothes sent from Paris, m spite
of his elegant nose and fine eyes, and what Germaine
described as his scholarly forehead. A mere wisp of
a boy, no physique, no strength; why, to give him a
p lank to hfi; would be to break him, whereas to see
Christophe lifting a plank was to know that you had
not betrayed your manhood. A lovely sight, Chris¬
tophe lifting a p lank, with small muscles already upon

185

his young arms and rippling out on his sunburnt
shoulders, , . . What a son to have made! And what
sons he would make, in his turn, when he gave his
old father grandchildren!

Jouse got up abruptly and went to the drawer
where his wife kept her pen and ink and notepaper:
‘Messieurs,’ he wrote in his thin sprawling hand,
‘I desire to purchase the very best suit that your firm
can provide for my son’s First Communion. I shall
also require a fine linen shirt and the kind of collar
that the English call It-ton, and a white flottant tie
of very good silk, and a white ribbon badge to be worn
on the sleeve, and a pair of first quality black woollen'
stockings. I shall also require patent leather shoes
of the sort I have seen displayed in your window.
Messieurs, should you know of anything else that is
now being worn on this solemn occasion — know of
any small extras that would add elegance — then I
beg that you will at once inform me. Meanwhile
kindly send me a measurement card —my son is
nearly eleven years old but large for his age, having
very broad shoulders. His mother will fill in the card
with great care and return it to you at the earliest
moment. . . Then he added some pompous cour¬
tesies and finally signed his name with a flourish.

‘Aliens’ he muttered, wagging his head as he wiped
the pen on the seat of his trousers, ‘aliens, we will
see a son of mine cannot go suitably clothed to
Jesus.’

186

Chapter xv

§i

I T was during the long preparation for Communion
upon which the Cure always insisted — those
months of endless religious instruction which, in spite
of his habitual indolence, he felt it his duty to give
the children — that Christophe began to study the
gospels with a new and curiously personal interest.

Far into the night he would read and reread their
simple yet poignantly tragic story; and the wMe he
read he would grow aware of an uneasy feeling of
apprehension, illogical, strange, and until now un¬
known. He would think:

‘Why should I be feeling afraid? It all happened
a very long time ago . . . and besides, Christ was
God.’ He would cling to this thought, so familiar
and in consequence so reassuring.

But another strange thing would bewilder the boy:
he would want to find something that was not in
the gospels. His mind would grope about helplessly
trying to understand its conviction that a lini had
been lost, a link with the divine, and that thus what
remained was less than perfection.

‘Such thoughts are great blasphemy,’ he would
decide; ‘I had better confess at once to the Curd.
It may easily be the devil who tempts because I
shall soon make my First Communion.’

But he neither confessed nor spoke of those thoughts,
for just lately he had grown very shy and self-con-

187

scious. The south and his unusual physical strength
were forcing their will on his anjdous body —he
was coming to an early maturity with all that that
holds of diffidence, of despondency, and of intro¬
spection. There were days now when the sadness
he had grown to resent would refuse to give way
before his resentment, when he could not go forth,
as he had in the past, intent on some mischievous
adventure, but must work at the bench in his
father’s shop even after there was no further need for
working, until Jouse observing his scowling face,
would scowl in his turn and might even speak
sharply:

T have told you stop for today and be off — my
timber and I like a cheerful apprentice!’

Then Christophe would drop his tool with a bang,
avoiding the brown, doglike eyes of Anfos that
followed him about with anxiety; and perhaps he
would wander across to Eusebe and find him squat¬
ting among his hides, intent upon stitching a pair of
new sandals.

Eusebe would look up: ‘Ho, ho, my cabbage, so
you visit the scandalous Eusebe who prefers his
vineyards to Holy Mass, and his rolls of hide to a
hide-bound Cure! Eh bien, you are welcome as you
were in the days when I told you of the terrible
Recatadou di Rato-Penado, and of other true things
which no doubt you have now grown too wise to
credit. Sit down. Pecaire, how enormous you are!
One would think you were several years older than
your age—ah, yes, you are much too big now for my
legends.’

But one evening Christophe said: ‘Tell me your
legends;’ for he longed to be once again just a small
child sitting there in the dusk with le tout petit Loup
and Jan, while Eusebe made them all tremble.

So Eusebe laid a sandal aside, and he turned first

i88

his blue-white eye upon Christophe, then his fierce
black eye that glowed like a coal, and he told in a
solemn and awesome voice of the Recatadou di Rato-
Penado. Then he told of the Baumo de la Masco
Taven, and Lou Courredou de I’Esperit Fantasti,
while the sudden nightfall darkened the shop, so
that Eusebe must light the lamp which gave out so
pungent and unpleasant an odour.

‘There is still the Cafoumo de la Chaucho Viejo.*
he reminded, ‘I remember how frightened you be¬
came when you first heard about that horrible night¬
mare — shall we have it?’

But Christophe shook his cropped head, while his
pale, bright eyes actually filled with tears: ‘No,’ he
murmured, ‘I cannot feel frightened any more . . .
not at such things . . .’

‘That is sad,’ remarked Eusebe. For something of
the wisdom he had gleaned from the earth, and from
years of tending the fruits of the earth, touched his
hoary old heart to a partial understanding, so that
his glowing black eye looked more kind as it rested
on Christophe, and he spoke almost gravely: ‘It
is that you now have a new thing to fear —as we
grow we must listen to the story of life; mais oui,
mais oui, the story of life — yet who knows but that
that is also a legend. Mon brave, it is better to be
like me; I say to myself: “I have lost an eye, but
thanks be to Bacchus I have still got the other.” I say
to myself: “Boots and shoes are not gay, they are
clumsy and ugly and dull to make, but thanks be to
Bacchus I can also make sandals.” I say to myself:
“I am growing old like my good feather bed; I am
careless and dirty; the girls not look at me do\^
at the port, and the men from the tartanes make a
mock of my blindness, thrusting forward their women
upon my blind side — but thanks be to Bacchus there
is still the fine wine and the dreams that come firom

189

the fine, fnendly wine” ... Yes, surely it is better
to be like me. Life was simpler far when the world
was pagan.’

‘But then I am not a pagan,’ sighed Christophe.

§2

Sometimes Christophe would seek out the studious
Jan who, when he was not on his knees in the church,
was engrossed by the books that the Curd had lent
him. Aid Jan would motion his cousin to a chair:
‘Do not go — I like to feel that you are near me.’
Which was true, for despite his prayers and his books
he still felt a very deep love for Christophe, as did
Christophe for him — that tenacious love which
had shown itself first when they two had been infants.

Christophe would gaze at Jan’s dark, bowed head,
at his slender figure and handsome profile, and would
wonder how Jan could tolerate him, such a slow-
witted, stupid and clumsy fellow. He would almost
decide not to have his hair cropped, but to wear it
as Jan wore his, with a parting — it was ugly cropped
so close to the scalp. But then he would remember
that his hair was red and quite straight, not a curly
red-gold like his father’s.

Presently Jan might lay down his book, yawn and
stretch: ‘That is quite enough for this evening!
Let us go out, it is hot in tliis room.’ So out they
must go arm in arm as usual.

Christophe would listen while Jan discussed life
with the very complete assurance of childhood. But
now when he spoke about his religion his eyes burned
as they did when they looked on the Host — all on
fire, he was, at the thought of Communion:

‘Surely I could kill the people who blaspheme
against our Lord’s name, who despitefully use
Him!’ Yes, now more than ever must his Lord be

190

avenged. ‘I could kill them — do you not feel like
that also? Eh bien, what is the matter? Have you
swallowed your tongue?’

For Christophe would answer such outbursts with
silence.

Jan would turn his accusing yoimg eyes on his
friend — a child’s eyes yet already those of a fanatic:
‘You are lukewarm, you blow neither hot nor cold.’
he said angrily one day, falling back on his namesake.
‘Is it you who would strike a blow for our Saviour?
When I speak of blasphemers your face becomes
stupid and dull like a mule’s — you are dumb like
a mule, like a beast that because it has got no soul
is deprived of all feeling and understanding!’

And the walk came near to being a failure, for
Christophe must struggle to keep his temper, while
Jan must remind himself of the love that he bore this
silent and obstinate creature who seemed so unwilling
to kindle the fire of a faith that was worthy of him as
a Christian.

Thus the weeks slipped by and there came the
March night when those tiresome accounts were per¬
plexing poor Jouse. And that night Christophe sat
in his attic alone, reading by the flickering flame of a
candle — he was reading the gospel according to
Saint Luke very carefully, because its beauty im¬
pressed him. And whenever his eyes met the name
Galilee, they paused, for to him that name held
great sweetness; and now, as was always the case
Siese days, he must picture a green and boimtiful
country having many deep streams that gushed over
rocks, and wide valleys, and ranges of snow-capped
mountains.

‘Yes, but how do I know these things,’ he mused;
for even the notes of the singing birds he felt that he
knew —there were many such birds —yet he had
not been told of them by the Cur^. The Cure cared

191

nothing about Galilee beyond what it stood for in
scriptural history.

Then after a time, as the boy still read on, he
realized that once more he was seeking, but that now
he knew what it was that he sought: ‘\^en he bathed
His feet in that stream . . . where is it? He had
cut His foot on a stone and it bled. He sighed a little
and took off His sandals; then He blessed the water
for cooling His feet . . . But where has it got to?
Why cannot I find it?’ The sweat broke out on his
hands and forehead, while something very like
panic seized him as he turned from gospel to gospel
in search of the incident that had not been recorded:

‘He took off His sandals and bathed His feet ... He

blessed the water,’ he kept repeating.

Pain, He was suddenly conscious of pain —the
pain of the body. He clutched at his foot, he stamped
it upon the ground: it was whole. Then whose pain
was this, his own or another’s? But pain. He was
suddenly conscious of pain — the pain of the mind.
He was deeply discouraged, he was filled with per¬
sistent and anxious doubts, his brain ached with a
host of unanswered questions —he was doubting
himself. Was_ he doubting himself? Whose doubts
were these, his own or another’s? Yes, but pain —
the searing pain of the Spirit. The intolerable anguish
of divining perfection, the intolerable pity for each
conscious thing that was yet unconscious of that per¬
fection. "^e intolerable longing to show forth God
as the Ultimate Triumph, the Beginning and the End
of all things in Love — in the Love of God that was
patient, courageous, invincible, deathless. The long¬
ing to lift the^ whole world up to God. But whose
longing was this, his own or another’s?

And now he could not any more see the attic, for its
w^s must give place to luminous visions, to a sun¬
shine more ruthless than that of Saint Loup, to skies
19a

that were bluer than those of Provence. And a tall
man, he saw, with a small reddish beard; a poorly
clad man who looked like a peasant. And this man
had made a cup of his hands and was holding a bird,
and the bird was singing. Yes, right up into his
smiling face the bird sang; Christophe could see
its minute ruffled throat, could perceive all the joy
that throbbed in that song, could divine the creature’s
sense of protection.

Then words, heard as though through illimitable
space: ‘This is my brother —shew mercy to all
things.’

And again, on the road to Jerusalem . . . the man
had paused, seeing a beast of burden, a pack-mule
that stumbled beneath its load — inarticulate, humble
and heavy-laden. He had flung the load from its
aching withers, and its withers were pitififlly galled
and bleeding . . . He was healing the galls widi the
touch of his hand . . . ‘This is my brother — shew
mercy to all things.’

And now he was in the street of a town, a populous
hill-town — its name was Nain. He was kneeling
beside a dying dog, a pariah dying in great desola¬
tion. The gaunt yellow creature lay stretched out in
the sun, too feeble to drag itself into shelter, and its
body was covered with festering sores, but its eyes
looked into the eyes of the man with an indescribable
expectation . . . He was laying his hands upon the
beast’s head: ‘Our Father . . . into Thy merciful
keeping. . . .’

Christophe sprang up with a stifled cry: ‘Mirdo!’
he gasped. And again: ‘Mireio!’

It was over. He saw the walls of his room, saw the
cheap but familiar print of the Virgin, saw his narrow
oak bed with its clean white qmlt, saw the stars
gleaming in through his dormer window. He ran
to the window and looked down on the street he had

N 193

known all the years of his short existence; and while
he still stood there an uncertain gleam appeared from
Eusebe’s half-open doorway — without doubt he had
iust staggered home from the port and was fumblingly
trying to light a candle. And Christophe felt grateful
towards these things, for they came as a balm to his
understanding — they were crude, simple, homely,
everyday things; aye, even the drunken old sandal-

Then turning he flung himself onto the bed and
began to cry weakly: ‘Mireio . . he sobbed, for
the wound of her passing was not yet healed, ‘Mireio,
come back from God; I want you!’ But after a Uttle
his sobs died away and he lay there quite motion¬
less. He was sleeping.

•194-

Chapter xvi

T he 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: ‘ChristopheBenedit, this is intolerable, shameful!
Not a question this morning have you answered
correctly.’ And turning to Loup, ‘AUons, Loup,
attention! Kindly tell me the principal victories of
Napoleon.’ Then le tout petit Loup lookmg ludi¬
crously small and fragile beside his large-limbed
brother, would pipe out 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?’

195

Jouse would exclaim on a note of impatience. ‘Strike
more fomly; you will ruin that excellent wood! Do
you think the saints send us our timber for nothing?’

So Christophe would steady his chisel and strike:
‘Tell Jan . . . tell Jan . . . tell him what you have
seen . . . tell Jan . . . tell Jan . . . tell him what
you have seen . . With a kind of despair he would
start hammering wildly in an effort to break that
intolerable rhythm.

Marie said to her husband: ‘Our Christophe is
ailing, he eats litde, and I do not like his strange
silence. Houi, if our Christophe also becomes ill,
he who has always had such perfect health ... It
would seem that indeed the kind saints desert usl’
And she looked as though she intended to weep.

‘Do not be so ridiculous, Marie!’ snapped Jouse,
‘The boy is maturing — it is natural enough — your
golden Saint Loup himself cannot baulk nature. . . .
At Christophe’s age I also felt glum, but that was
because I had so many bods. I remember quite
well how conscious I became of everything that per¬
tained to my body. Beyond this there is nothing
wrong with your son. But keep a sharp look out in
a few years from now —he may then catch the
deadly distemper called women.’ And he laughed,
remembering his own precocity, patted her cheek,
and went about his business.

But that night when the boy was already in bed,
his mother made her way up to the attic; and she
smoothed his pillow, and straightened his sheet, and
careMly tucked in his old brown blanket. Then
she suddenly folded him close in her arms calling
him many endearing names — little kind, foolish
names that she had used long ago when he greedily
sucked his life from her bosom. For her heart was
heavy at the thought of this chfrd who was daily
drawing further away from childhood towards a

196

future that none might foresee, not even the \vise,
tender heart of a mother. And because he was barely
eleven years old despite the precocious strength of
his body, he laid his head eagerly down on her breast,
for he also was anxious to hold back the years because
of an undefined dread of the future.

‘Enfantounet,’ she whispered, ‘shall I sing you to
sleep?’

He nodded in silence, fearing that speech might
destroy this fooHsh yet comforting illusion.

So Marie sang him an old lullaby that had long
soothed many a Provengal cradle, and her voice was
thin but tuneful and sweet as she rocked the boy
who lay in her arms as willingly as though he were
a baby:

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,

Will you take my little son into your keeping?’
‘Surely I will, for I too had a Son — but my little
Son was laid in a manger.’

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,

Will you cherish my little son through his child¬
hood?’

‘Surely I will, for I too had a Son — but my little
Son was forced into exile.’

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,

Will you guide my son’s feet in the days of his
manhood?’

‘Sxirely I will, for I too had a Son — but my Son’s
feet became terribly weary.’

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God,

Will you plead for my son at the hour of his
dying?’

‘Surely I. will, for I too had a Son — but my Son
died upon Calvary that yours might inherit
the Life Everlasting.’

197

She stopped singing. Christophe had lifted his
head and was gazing up into her face intently:
‘Enfantounet . . . why do you look at me so . . .?’
she faltered, for she thought that his eyes seemed
strange — very old, very grave, very full of pity.

§2

Jan listened to his cousin with incredulous amaze¬
ment: ‘Comment, you would have me believe you
saw Jesus —yet you cannot even remember His
f3.CC?^

‘No, I cannot remember His face,’ said Christophe.
They were sitting in the woods just beyond the
town, near the spot where Jan had slain his last
couleuvre, and the woods were beginning to smell of
spring, for March had recently passed into April.

Jan persisted: ‘And you say that He bathed His
feet in a stream and that one of His feet was bleeding?
How much did it bleed?’

‘It bled quite a lot — and it pained Him.’

‘How do you know that it jjained?’

‘Because I could feel the pain,’ replied Christophe.
‘But why should our Lord have blessed the stream
as though He were grateful? I do not believe it!
The Cure blesses water but that is for us, in order
that we may benefit by it; it keeps away fiends when
it has been blessed.’

Christophe answered: ‘Yet I know that He did
feel grateful . . .’

‘And you want me to believe that He actually
spoke?’

‘Yes, He spoke of a bird that He held — it was
singing.’

‘And what did He say?’ demanded Jan.

‘He said: “This is my brother —shew mercy to
all things”.’

198

‘And what next?’

‘He healed many galls for a mule . . . that was
on the road to Jerusalem . . . the mule was cruelly
overloaded.’

‘And then?’

‘He knelt by a dying dog in a street in Nain.’

‘How do you know that it was Nain?’

Christophe thought for a moment: ‘I cannot tell
you.’

‘And then?’

‘He laid His hands on its head and prayed — He
was sending the dog to God. It was suffering, its
body was covered with sores . . . very terrible
sores . . . ’ His voice sank to a whisper, ‘I cannot
be wrong for the dog was . . . Mireio.’

They stared at each other as once in. the past they
had stared in dumb fear when the blow dealt by Jan
to the couleuvre had scarred Christophe’s shrinking
shoulders.

Then Christophe said slowly; ‘These things are
all lost —they must have forgotten to write them
down, that is why there is something I miss in the
gospels.’

‘You are mad!’ exclaimed Jan, still feeling afraid,
‘Only saints and holy martyrs see visions.’ Then he
flushed, ‘But what is that you have said? Who are
you to pretend to miss things in the gospels? Are you
the four Evangelists perhaps? One would think you
were all four of them rolled together! Sarnipabieune,
but what conceit! No doubt you know better than
Monsieur le Cure, no doubt you know better than our
bishop, mais oui; no dou^)t you know better than the
Holy Father!’ And now he was working himself
into a rage. ‘Moreover you blaspheme — you blas¬
pheme about MirHo. Mirao was a beast and beasts
have no souls, yet you tell me that Jesus sent her
to God —it must be that you are both stupid and

199

wicked! In any case she is not very long dead, there¬
fore how can Mir^o have been seen by Jesus? And
I do not believe that our Lord healed a mule, he
healed only human beings with souls — blind men
He healed, and women, and lepers — the people
He wished to have with Him in heaven. You are
lying, or else you will soon become mad. No, you
have not seen our Lord but the devil.’ He paused
for a moment to recover his breath, then he went on
more quickly, spluttering a little: ‘Listen to me well,
I will now repeat what is said at the end of Revelation:
“If any man shall add unto these things, God shall
add unto him the plagues that are written in this
book:” Yes, those are the actual words of Saint John,
and that is what you have done, added to these
things, and therefore you are a very great liar!’

Christophe said quietly: ‘I have spoken the truth.
I have told you what I was meant to tell you.’

They faced each other and Christophe’s calm eyes
met and held the turbulent eyes of his cousin. Arid
now they were not young boys any more — at this
moment they were neither young nor old, but just
two living creatures irrevocably bound by the bonds
of an infinite love that was ageless.

Jan muttered: ‘You are wicked because you blas¬
pheme, yet I do not wish to loll you like the others.
. . .’ Then all of a sudden he burst into tears, and
when next he spoke his words were quite childish:
‘Oh, oh,’ he blubbered, ‘what am I going to do? You
will go down to hell and then I shall lose you!’

Cfostophe looked at him, not knowing what he
should say, or how he might best hope to give con¬
solation.

They walked home hand in hand as they been used
to walk when they were very small children. They for¬
got that they had both grown since those d9.ys, re¬
membering only that they had quarrelled yet again

200

and must therefore keep close together, for they felt
an intangible dread of separation. They spoke little,
and when they arrived at Joust’s worlihop they
parted without looking at one another, for Jan was
feeling ashamed of his tears, and Christophe divining
this, tried to spare him. ,

But that night Jan remained a long time on his
knees in front of his crucifix, praying for Christophe.

§3

This particular quarrel although it had passed
quickly, had made a deep impression upon Christophe;
it had strengthened his very unwilling conviction
that in some way he differed from other people, and
this thought was intensely distasteful to him.

Jan had spoken to the Cur^ about those visions,
and the Cure, it seemed, had not been outraged but
had taken the whole matter almost lightly. He had
called Christophe into the Presbytery at the end of the
usual Sunday instruction, and had listened with a
grave and courteous attention to the boy’s replies
to his searching questions, and then he had remarked
that all such happenings were capable of divers
explanations. Christophe might well have fallen
asleep, and who could account for the strangeness
of dreams? Or again, he was probably working hard,
having realized that he was rather backward. Bien,
a tired brain was often an active brain, but not
always a very reliable brain; it played cririous
tricks, it imagined things that had no importance
because no existence. Amd then there had been the
death of the bitch; of course Christophe had firetted
about Mir^o. He, the Cure, had once had a dog of
his own, a most faithful creature, a curly retriever.
One could grow very fond indeed of a dog . . . Well
now, might not that account for quite a good deal?

201

It might surely account for one of the visions. But
the 'fusions themselves had been gentle visions-
our Lord and the little bird, that had been charming
—a charming fancy — quite a picture it made;_ our
Lord with the little bird in His hands . . but of
course Christophe knew ail about Saint Francis,
that was how things got themselves jumbled up,
but no matter , . . None of it mattered at all so
long as one did not allow one’s fancies to masquerade
as the truths of religion. Christophe had his Church
and his Church had Truth. Jan had been silly about
the whole business, had given it all too much import¬
ance. He, the Cure, had had a long talk with Jan
who had promised not to be so impulsive: ‘And now,
Christophe, put it right out of your head. Do not
worry yourself, just be a good boy and pray to the
Sacred Heart of our Lord that your First Com¬
munion may be very perfect.’

Thus‘the Cure Martel, who had honesdy made a
great effort to advise with kindness and wisdom.

But neither Jan’s folly nor the Cure’s wisdom had
been able to dim the memory of those visions, or to
rob them of their deep reality — for the tangible is
never so entirely real as that which is seen by the
eyes of the Spirit.

It was strange perhaps that the boy did not turn to
his mother at this time of bewilderment and trouble,
or even to the father whose stalwart love made up
for a certain lack of understanding, but stranger
still that he should have found consolation in the
companionship of Anfos. And yet so it was, for to
Anfos he went during many a desolate hour in the
evening; to Anfos who would often remain in the
workshop striving to capture nomad thoughts in
the net of his wonderfully skilful carving, i^fos
had taken to carving flowers — oleanders, carnations,
sprays of mimosa; to carving the tendrils and leaves

202

of the vines, and the finit that bent the branches of
the vines, and the frail winged creatures that swung on
the vines. And if any would buy he might sell such
work, for Jouse was a just and good-natured master.
So to Anfos the boy would go with some object in
which he himself had discerned great beauty — for
now he saw beauty in many a thing that had seemed
in the past unworthy of notice — the young leaf of a
mulberry tree, very green, very neat, and a network
of delicate veining; a sprig of wild lavender plant
from the hills, quiet and retiring but persistently
fragrant; a soft, foolish moth with the eyes of an owl
and wings of the intangible colour of twilight—a moth
rescued by Christophe’s careful hands from a fiery
grave in the lamp above Anfos.

‘Look, Anfos,’ he would say: ‘it has down on its
wings — a kind of shining silvery powder!’

Then Anfos would lay down lus tool and look, his
doglike eyes full of profound admiration: ‘Beu Di^u,’
he would murmur, for his words were few, so that
whenever his heart was moved or his childish mind
animated to pleasure, he could only call upon a
beautiful God —but this tribute would seem all-
sufficing to Christophe. Thus it was that these two,
the boy and the half-wit who had knelt to this boy
when he was a baby, that these two were now drawn
very close by a perception which has little to say to
the intellect — the inward and spiritual perception
of beauty.

But at times Christophe needed to be alone, and
would wander off by himself to the hill on the summit
of which stands the ruined fortress. Climbing slowly
with his eyes bent upon the ground, while his head
felt heavy with unanswered problems, he would
finally reach the old citadel, now held by the bright¬
eyed garrison of lizards. And sometimes he would
stretch out a quite fiiendly hand, and would make that

203

small sound-that very smaU sound winch was like
a soft but compelling summons, and a lizard would
lift its throat to the sun, then glance brightly at
Christophe’s hand and move nearer, then all of a
sudden it would be on his hand or his arm, to be
followed by another and another —for at last he
had won the friendship of these creatures. Yet his
heart was so full of trouble these days that he would
not always call his companions, but would sit staring
down at the roofs of Saint Loup, or away to the sea
that spread bluely beyond them, while his mind
sought in vain to explain itself and the unsolved
enigma of his existence.

Brooding darkly he would conjure up all his
troubles; his stupidity at school which perpetually
shamed him; his constant and unhappy quarrels
with Jan —always quarrels in spite of thep grep
devotion; the thoughts that would come into his
head undesired — thoughts of pity, of anxious and
eager compassion; his misery over the sufferings and
p ain of all speechless and thus defenceless creatures
. , . that mark on his shoulders when Jan struck the
couleuvre. And his hands, the great fear he had felt
of his hands since the night when their power had
released Mir^o —or had she been actually going
to die? Had he only imagined that his touch had
released her? And the day when he put on his firp
pair of sandals , , . that queer falling asleep at his
father’s workbench , , , that queer waking up with
a sense of dread because of something that he must
do. But what? he had brought back no memory of
it. Then those pictures — Christ holding the sing¬
ing bird —Christ healing the maltreated beast of
burden — Christ laying His hands on Mireio’s head
... on Mirdo’s head? but Mir^o had been now.
It was he and not Christ who had laid hands upon
her, and the town had not been Nain but Saint

ao4

Loup, and the place not a street but a shed in tfa^
yard, and the time not midday but after midnight^
. . . Christ and MirHo . . . Mirdo and Chris-
tophe. ...

He would cover his face and begin to pray: ‘Lord,
I am only eleven years old ... I am big and clumsy
but my brain feels quite small. I%m stupid, I cannot
learn anything from books, and I do not understand
. . . no, I do not understand what it is that makes me
so different from people. Lord, I want to be kind,
but I do not like pain, I do not like knowing so much
about pain — I have told Your golden Saint Loup
this already. And I do not want to see things all
wrong as I did when I saw You kneeling by MirHo,
because though I see wrong I feel I see right, and it
worries me . . . Jan says that I shall go mad . . .’
His prayer would trail off into vague confused words
about Jan and MirHo and liis own First Communion.

But one late afternoon as he sat nesir the ruins
trying to pray and but iU succeeding, he imcovered
his face rather suddenly and looked down on a green
and most bountiful vaUey, and he heard the rushing
and splash of a stream — a soft turbulent sound, and
the singing of birds that had never sung on the hills
of Saint Loup, yet the notes of whose songs were
completely farniliar. And beyond, very far away,
he perceived not the dark, rugged, unclothed peaks
of the Maures, but the peaks of much higher and
snow-capped mountains.

Then he spoke, but softly, for some joy is so fragile
that it breaks at the touch of our coarsened vibra¬
tions: ‘Gahlee ... I am looking at Galilee.’ And
his heart was dissolved in a peace so immense that
it passed even his profound imderstanding, while
his eyes filled with slow, reminiscent tears —the
tears of a wanderer who had come home to the happy
greenness and peace of that valley. ‘You are beautiful,

205

he murmured, fruitful and kind; you shelter

the birds, you nurture the cattle, you have many
deep streams at which aU may drink. And at evening
yoxur mountains are heavy with rest, and at dawn
your mountains are the first to praise God ... to
praise . . . .’ His voice faltered and died away;
then he raised his hand as though he were blessing.

A bell sounded. He saw the town of Saint Loup
with the sea lying placid and azure beyond it, saw
the dark, rugged, unclothed peaks of the Maures,
saw the ancient church with its open belfry and heard
the three rhythmic strokes of the bell that proclaimed
the lifting up of the Lord at the evening service of
Benediction.

206

Chapter xvii

§1

T he new suit arrived —the sxut from Marseille
that Christophe would wear for his First Com¬
munion. Loup’s marmoset eyes all but dropped from
his head, so astonished was he at its glossy black
splendour. And what stockings! as soft as though
woven of silk; and the spotless white shirt of the
finest linen; and the funny stiff collar that the Eng¬
lish boys wore; and the wide flottant tie, and the
wide ribbon badge to be worn on the sleeve —a
white satin band with a big round rosette and ele¬
gant streamers. And the shoes! so thin, so incredibly
shiny, with laces as silky and soft as the stockings;
but above all, one truly magnificent thing — the suit
in addition to jacket and breeches, had actually got
a real grown-up waistcoat, a waistcoat with striped
sateen at the back and a manly, neat little strap with
a buckle!

Oh, but le tout petit Loup must regret his pert
inattention to Monsieur le Cur6, his^ suckings and
scnmchings of sweets during class, his sudden and
often embarrassing questions, all of which had led
to Monsieur le Cmre’s stern words: ‘You are not yet
sufficiently serious, my child; I fear we shall have to
delay your Communion.’ And now here was Christo¬
phe dressed up in the suit, and examining himself in
their mother’s best mirror, then complaining that
the shoes felt too tight for his feet and begging to wear
his ugly old sandals. And now here was Christophe
thrusting a finger down the fiinny stiff collar ffiat

207

the English called It-ton, and declaring that it felt
all wrong on his neck, while he, Loup, could scarcely
contain his desire to see his own neck rising out of
that collar. It was indeed a real cause for regret
that he had been pert to Monsieur le Cure.

Marie said: ‘You may now take the suit off, my
son;’ and she started to unbutton the magnificent
waistcoat.

Then Christophe unfastened the collar with a
plop and divested himself of his shoes and stocHngs,
then his jacket, while Marie dragged down the
breeches and carefully drew the shirt over his head
taking pains that it should not get creased in the pro¬
cess. With a sigh of relief Christophe thrust his brown
legs into shorts made from Jouse’s old linen trousers,
and lus head into a sleeveless striped cotton vest^
and his feet into the pliant, well-contrived sandals.

‘You are not what the English call: “Gen-tell-
men,” ’ scoffed Loup, ‘you behave like what the
English call: “Com-mune” ’ for Monsieur Roland
had once been to Hull, and would sometimes dis¬
course with his pupils of England, dropping a word
here and there by the way, just to show how conversant
he was with the language.

Said Jouse: ‘Well, this I can surely affirm: no
boy will be better dressed than our Christophe. You
may very well hold your head high, my son, the suit
fits superbly, while as for the cost . . . But your
mother is of my opinion, I know — there are certain
occasions upon which one spends money.’

^ ‘Mais surement, surement . . .’ Marie agreed.
‘And besides, our Christophe has quite a fine figure.’

Le tout petit Loup turned white and then red,
while his eyes became less like a sick marmoset’s and
more like a thoughtful, malevolent monkey’s as he
watched his mother folding the suit, then the wide
flottant tie, then the sofi: woollen stocMngs, and finally
208

disposing of the whole in her drawer beneath several
clean layers of new tissue paper. And that evening
when Marie went up to her bedroom in order to
look for a spool of cotton, what must she find but le
tout petit Loup with his mischievous fingers among the
paper. And wtule she observed him, herself unob¬
served, what must she see but le tout petit Loup
removing the paper, then stroking the clothes very
much as though he were stroking a cat, making small
guttural sounds the while in his throat, sounds that
seemed less suggestive of asthma than pleasure.

‘Who told you to open that drawer?’ she demanded.

Did he jump? Not he! All he did was to turn with
a smile so seraphic that it quite disarmed her: ‘It
was that I wanted to touch the suit in which Chiis-
tophe wUl visit our Lord,’ he said sweetly, ‘Ai! las,
that I may not visit our Lord! Maman, will you not
speak with Monsieur le Cure?’

Marie shook her head: ‘No, I cannot, my son —
he alone is the person to judge of your fitness.’

But that night as she lay at her husband’s side, she
expressed a grave doubt of the Cure’s wisdom: ‘I
think he is very unwise,’ she declared, ‘not to let
Loup receive Communion this year merely because
the child fidgets in class. Imagine! this evening he
was stroking that new suit because it was going to be
worn for our Lord — was that not touching of le tout
petit Loup?’

‘Maybe — but now I would sleep,’ grunted Jouse.

And indeed it did appear that le tout petit Loup
had suddenly grown amazingly religious; he was
constantly fingering his holy medals, or telling his
beads by himself in a corner, or getting up on week
days to go to Mass, or kneeling — apparently lost in
prayer — at the foot of his Patron’s shrine after vespers.

‘So long as you do not make yourself ill . . . that
is all I ask of our Lord,’ fretted Marie.

o

209

But the Cure continued to shake his head. ‘Next
year, if you are attentive in class, we will then
consider your First Communion.’

§2

May came in, the month of our Blessed Lady, the
month of the children’s approach to the altar. The
Cure Martel was puckering his brow and fidgeting
his feet as he sat in his study. He was struggling to
forget a psychological treatise and to concentrate
instead upon his address to the parents of youthful
communicants — it would shortly appear in the Parish
Journal:

‘Soyez-en felicites mes chers parents cr^tiens, car
vous avez donne a vos chers petits enfants le privilege
supreme, le privilege sublime, de s’agenouiller aux
pieds de leur tr^s-cher Jesus . . . ’ He sighed; every
other word seemed to be; ‘cher’; he was no good at
all at this sort of writing. Then he tried to enliven his
brain with snuff, sneezed twice, wiped his eyes, blew
his long-suffering nose and stained a new handkerchief
brown in the process.

Meanwhile, an air of suppressed excitement was
very apparent in many a household: little girls with
discreet but rather bright eyes; little boys look-
sheepish, good and embarrassed; mothers with
expressions which were usually reserved for occasions
such as funerals or weddings; fathers with a kind
of high pride on their brows, as who should say;
‘See what we have done for the Lord by creating
such handsome and excellent children!’ Oh, yes, it
was very apparent indeed, this air of suppressed but
undoubted excitement.

May the first. Marie getting out Christophe’s fine
clothes and twealdng the buttons — she mistrusts shop
sewing — then flickmg a speck off the breeches with
210

her thumb, then laying the suit back again in the
drawer and covering it up with the new tissue paper.

May the second. Jouse and Marie disappearing
after many loud, conspiratorial wliispers. They are
seen going into a shop near the port where a galaxy
of Prayer-Books is displayed in the window.

‘This is not of real leather,’ the salesman explains,
‘mais Madame, croyez moi, it is even better — ob¬
serve too the charming little cross on the binding —
and the clasp. There is also a very fine picture of
Saint Aloysius at the altar rails. Saint Aloysius
receiving Communion,’ and he quickly exhibits that
youthful saint.

‘Yes, but what would real leather cost?’ Marie asks
him.

She is told, and Jouse shakes his head sadly: ‘No,’
he murmurs, ‘too much, too much, Marioun.’

‘Ah, well,’ consoles Marie, mustering a smile,
‘as Monsieur here says, this Prayer-Book is charming
— and strong. Monsieur says — is that not so. Mon¬
sieur? With a fine clasp and all — then think of the
picture!’ For the poor are wonderfully patient at
times when it comes to foregoing some innocent
longing.

So die Prayer-Book that is not of real leather but
of something that Monsieur has said is even better,
is duly purchased and carried away. And that night
it is carefully inscribed by J6us6 —but upstairs in
the bedroom lest Christophe should see: ‘A notre
tr^-cher fils Christophe, de la part de ses parents k
I’occasion de sa Premiere Communion,’ writes J6us6,
protruding, as he does so, the tip of his tongue — the
small page is terribly awkward to write on.

May the third. Christophe’s suit is hung in the
air in case it should smell a little of camphor. Le
tout petit Loup still telling his beads, but out loud
instead of in a sibilant whisper. Anfos sweating right

2II

down into his straggling beard because he is afraid of
being late with his present - a carved plaque depict¬
ing die Chalice and Host surrounded by a choir of
birds and much glory. Marie lighting candles to the
Mother of God: ‘O Mother of God, make our
Christophe worthy.’ J6us^ dso saying a prayer at
her side, and near-by quite a handful of other parents.
Tan as pale as a wraith with his dark burmng eyes-
Tan looking as though his eyes must consume him. He
kneels in front of the shrine of Saint Loup, and his
face is turned up to the wamor-bishop. Madame
Roustan, diligendy beating her breast, dways,
for the sins she would like to commit but which, alas,
she has never committed. Goundran passing the
church and deciding to look in-why not? ^ght as
well say a prayer for one’s godson. And the Cure
galvanized into activity by what is going to take place
on the morrow, the Cure goes padding around Ae
church, counting the hassocks, fidgeting with chain,
pinching the wicks of the votive candles. He loote
worried — that paternal address is not ready, he will
have to stick at it all night if need be; and meanwhile
his handsome aquiline nose is somewhat inflamed
by excessive snuff-taking, and his prominent eyes look
distinctiy moist-he has grown much addicted to

snuff just lately. . - , . ^ i t.,.

At la Tarasque M^re Mdame feels sentimental. It
is only^ as yet, early afternoon, so the stained marble
tables boast very few clients; this gives her a great
deal of time for thought and she sits behmd her bar-
counter thinking. Madame Roustan has been in for a
Sirop-de-menthe, and has talked about Jan and his
First Communion. Jous^ has stopped to buy cigar¬
ettes, and has talked about Christophe and Im First
Communion. Madame Perron’s young brother, an
artist from the north, has drunk more than one petit
verre already; he is now rather sleepy but before bis

212

lids drooped he complained that the house was like
a ship in a tempest —such rushing about, and no
meals, if you please! ‘Why? because the white muslin
dress of my niece does not fit; it is found to be much too
tight, and to-morrow she makes her First Communion.’

Ah, the dear little children —the dear Mother of
God — the dear Jesus — it is all so terribly moving.
Alas, that she, unhappy M^re Melanie, has never been
granted a child by heaven — a girl child who could
wear a white muslin dress, white suMe shoes and a
wreath of white cotton roses. So many years of men,
always men, and they as alike as two peas in a pod
and with only one idea in their heads . . . And they
strutting and crowing like cocks in a barnyard: ‘Mais,
ma cherie, if you thi^ you have known the real thing
before you met me, only wait, I will shew you! Mais
non, you have never yet known the real thing!’
And they as alike as two peas in a pod — lascivious,
selfish and clumsy; quels salauds! But one put up
with men for the sake of a child. Ah, the dear little
children — the dear Mother of God — the dear Jesus
— it is all so terribly moving.

Mere Mdanie gropes about in her bag; she finds
lipstick, a small box of soiled face-powder, the key of
the cellar, some unpaid bills, an odd curling-pin and a
piety medal; and at last, tucked away in a fold of
tom silk, her handkerchief heavily scented with
chypre, and with this she quite openly dabs her eyes
several times — it is all so terribly moving.

Christophe sits alone. He has climbed once again
to the old citadel with its garrison of lizards. The
lizards mn over his feet and hands but he does not
see them for his eyes are closed. He is not asleep, he is
only very tired — too tired to think much, to feel any
emotion. To-morrow he is goiug to receive his Lord,
he and Jan are going to receive their Lord . . . But
Christophe is too tired to fed any emotion.

213

Chapter xviii

T he next morning the Benedit household rose at
cock-crow, for Marie wished to prepare dejeuner
and tidy the rooms before dressing for Mass. It was
obvious, of course, that upon such a day there must be
neither undue haste nor confusion. Moreover,
Madame Roustan had expressed a desire that the two
families should start out together; she and Jan would
come up to her brother’s house and then they could
all walk down to the church, and Marie did not choose
that her sister-in-law should find their home other
than in good order.

‘What a woman,’ grumbled Jouse as he dragged
some old trousers over his night-shirt, ‘for ever inter¬
fering! One would think that living as near the church
as she does, we might have been spared this procession,
but no. However, it is all very clear, she wishes to show
off her marvellous Jan in his marvellous clothes that
have come from Paris—“Madame la Comtesse de
Berac,” sacre Nom! Are we all to parade the streets
like a circus?’

But Marie looked shocked: ‘Let us try to be calm.’
‘It is that I wish to be calm,’ frowned Jouse.

Anfos was hanging about on the landing; he was
grasping a pair of very old scissors: ‘I would . . .
like . . .’ he stammered, and pointed to his beard.

Jouse nodded: ‘Come along then, come into the
workshop. But mind, you must sit very still while I

214

trim. And have you brushed up that old suit which I
gave you? And the shoes, are they cleaned?’

‘I have done all,’ said Anfos.

Jouse thought that he seemed more half-witted
than usual; his lip sagged and his brown eyes looked
rather frightened.

‘Are you not well?’ Jouse asked him kindly, for
he often felt pitiftd of his apprentice. Le pauvre
bougre —he was now nearly thirty years old, yet
remained as a child in all things save his work.

‘So glorious ... so terrible . . .’ muttered Anfos.

‘What is terrible?’

But Anfos made no reply.

‘It is better not to worry him,’ Joiise decided as
he quickly and deftly trimmed the thin beard. Then:
‘Voil^, it is finished, and you look like a duke! Now
go and show yourself off to Marie.’

In the bedroom upstairs the bed had been made,
and on it Marie neatly laid out Christophe’s clothes;
he should dress himself in her room for Communion —
that was something she would like to remember.
Having seen that nothing was missing from the outfit,
she closed the door gently and going downstairs
proceeded to finish the rest of the housework. Ghris-
tophe helped her in a clumsy, inadequate way, a
thing that she had never known him dq before, and it
suddenly struck her that his offers of help arose from
a great desire to be near her.

‘It is natural,’ she mused, ‘he is nervous, no doubt,’
and she let him go blundering on with his tasks. ‘After
all, he is only a child,’ smiled Marie.

Meanwhile Jouse was putting away his tools, for no
work would be done that day in his workshop, while
Anfos had been sent to sweep up the yard so that
when they retinmed even that should be tidy.

Then quite suddenly Marie glanced over her
shoulder: ‘Where is Loup?’ she enquired, ‘Was he

215

not here just now? I thought he was saying his
Rosary.’

‘I think I can hear him above us,’ said Christophe,
‘I think I can hear him walking about in your room,
I do not think he is praying.’

Marie listened: ‘You are right.’ Then an awful
premonition made her hastily fling aside her duster,
‘We must see what he is doing,’ she said breathlessly,
‘I feel that we must see at once what he is doing!’
So together they hastened up to the bedroom.

There are some things in life that one never forgets,
that impress upon the mind indelible pictures. Neither
Christophe nor his mother were ever to forget the
apparition of le tout petit Loup that greeted their
eyes a minute later. He was standing quite still in
front of the mirror admiring his reflection, having
figged himself out in the clothes that J6use had bought
for his brother.

‘H^ —Bono Maire de Dieul’ breathed Marie.

She did not know whether to laugh or to cry,
whether to pity or to feel very angry, so grotesque was
the effect which he had produced, yet so obvious
was his self-satisfaction. Ai! las, ail las, le pauvre
tout petit Loup, the short breeches hung almost down
to his ankles, the jacket appeared to be resting on
sticks, while the fine manly waistcoat, in spite of its
strap, stood out hollow and stiff from his concave
stomach. Ai! las, ai! las, le pauvre tout.petit Loup
with his wisp of a body —he looked like a scare¬
crow.

But now Jous^ had suddenly appeared on the scene:
‘What is tins?’ he roared, standing transfixed in the
doorway.

‘It is that I am going to Communion!’ piped Loup;
and he resolutely turned and faced his parents.

‘Ho, ho!’ rumbled Jous^ deep in his throat. ‘Take
those clothes off at once!’

216

‘I will not.’ Loup informed him, folding his ridicu¬
lous, twig-like arms.

Santouno, what a way to speak to his father!

Said Jouse: ‘You need a mighty hard beating, you
have crumpled Christophe’s shirt, a very great outrage,
but because you know weU that you are too small to
beat you become more intolerable every day.’

Loup nodded: ‘I know that I am too small to beat
— if you beat me it would surely bring on my asthma.’
And he wheezed a little to give point to his words.

‘I command you to take off those clothes!’ thun¬
dered Jous^.

Marie ran quickly and closed the window: ‘Not so
loud,’ she warned, ‘Eusebe will hear you; already he
stands at the door of his shop with his head on one side
as he does when he listens. I think he is growing
deaf of one ear; all the same if you shout like that he
will hear you.’

Jous^ breathed hard: ‘I care not a sou; I care
neither for Eusdbe nor the devil. Here have I bought
magnificent clothes for Christophe, clothes that have
cost me the eyes of my head, clothes that have come
all the way from Mzirseille — from that grand and
expensive shop in Marseille — and this impious child
puts them on, spoils the shirt, and leaves the mark of
his thumb on the collar. But look at the collar where
his black thumb has been!’

‘I think it will come off with bread,’ murmured
Marie.

‘That may be —I doubt it —but one thing I
swear, I will not be defied to my face by my children.
I order you, Loup, to xmdress yourself.’

‘Then how can I go to Communion?’ Loup asked him.

Ah, no, that was too much! J6us^ stamped on the
floor, so enraged that he himself became childish,
for le tout petit Loup, with diabolical craft, was
gently but firmly fingering the collar.

217

‘Come, Loup,’ said Marie in a stUl, small voice
that should surely have reminded him of his con¬
science, ‘come to mother and let her undress you at
once.’

‘And for God’s sake stop touching that collar;’
groaned Jous^.

But le tout petit Loup merely turned his thin back
on them all: ‘To-day I am going to Communion.’

The daring, the incredible daring of the imp,
defying his parents, defying the Cure — a mosquito,
a gnat, a midge of a child, and dressed in a suit that
was sizes too large so that everyone who saw him must
laugh, yet declaring that he would go to Communion.
And what did he think the Cure would do when he
saw such a figure approaching the altar! Well, but
what could he do? Make a scene in the church? Oh,
the imp of Satan, the midge, the mosquito! Jouse
tugged at his beard and ruffled his hair; box Loup’s
ears? but no, a finger would break him. Then what?
Compromise by oflfering a bribe — some sweets, or
that little toy boat from the bazaar? Malavalisco,
a nice situation! Then a gleam of hope shot into
Jouse’s eyes — perhaps he would take on the clothes
for Christophe.

‘Christophe,’ he whispered, looking rather shame¬
faced, ‘Christophe, ask him to take them off for your
sake —but speak gently, for one never knows what
he may do . , . remember we have only got one
collar It-ton.’

The tactlessness of men, the obtuseness of men,
the blundering imbecility of them. Marie realized
just a moment too late that Christophe was going to
appeal to his brother —was appealing:

‘Loup, I very much want my new clothes, please
take them off . . . they are my clothes for Com¬
munion.’

It was done; the match was set to the fuse and the
218

fuse burnt quickly, then came the explosion. Le tout
petit Loup whisked round like a flash, wheezing and
coughing and choking with temper: 'Tour new
clothes,’ he spluttered, 'your this and that. Yom
fine stockings and shirt and your grand English collar.
Everything for you and nothing for me. You paint
Goundran’s house, but I may not paint; you bathe,
but I may not go near the water; you play dominoes,
and I may not win. And why do I not win? Because
you cheat. And now also, it seems, I may not go to
Communion. Everything you take, even Jesus you
take, you are greedy and mean, even Jesus you
take . . . .’

‘Hush, oh, hush! You say terrible thin gs!’ gasped
Marie.

But le tout petit Loup waved her off with his hand:
‘Perhaps you all think me an imbecile?’ he challenged.
And now had he been the Pope himself he really
could not have spoken more calmly. ‘I have studied
the laws of my Church,’ he informed them, ‘and our
Holy Father Pius X — who they say will surely be¬
come a great saint —has drawn up . . .’ he hesi¬
tated a moment, ‘has drawn up . . . Well, that really
is of no importance, whatever he has done is called:
Quam Singulari.’ Oh, the imp of Satan, he had got
it all pat! ‘Yes, Quam Singulari,’ he repeated granmy.
‘And the Quam Singulari says that I, Loup, may go
and make my First Communion this morning. I
have long attended the Cure’s classes and have there¬
fore received the needful instruction. If he says that
I have not, the Cure lies — and this he may do be¬
cause I suck sweets which Christophe gives me'to
help my asthma. And if Christophe can have a fine
suit so can I; I shall therefore go in his suit to Com¬
munion.’ He stopped speaking, and pale but im¬
mensely triumphant, he hitched up the sagging legs
of the breeches.

219

You might well have heard a pin drop in the room,
for you could not have seen three more paralysed
people than those who now stared at le tout petit
Loup — that mosquito, that gnat, that midge of a
child with the eyes of a wizened, malevolent monkey.
There was only one thing that they might have said —
they all thought of it, too, at precisely the same
instant. They might have said: ‘Look at yourself in
the glass; not just at the top of yourself but at the
whole!’ Yes, they might have, though naturally none
of them sziid it.

But a sly and insidious foe had poor Loup, which
was always lying in wait to undo liim. And it lived
in his lungs, this insidious foe, which gave it a very
unfair advantage. All in a moment he was fighting
for breath, and a really alarming attack it was this
time. So Christophe must take off the shoes and
stockings while Marie deftly removed the collar,
trying not to spoil the white flottant tie. Then she
handed the jacket and waistcoat to Jouse, and one
way and another they got him undressed and to bed,
where he lay like a sick marmoset, much too suffering
to resemble a malevolent monkey. Then Marie must
run out in search of a neighbour, and the wife of the
com-chandler promised to come and remain until
they should get back from Mass.

‘Very well,’ sighed Jouse, ‘very well, that is setded.
And now I think we had all better dress; it is late,
and one caimot keep the good God waiting.’

‘You and Christophe be off, then,’ said Marie
rather crossly, ‘go and wash and get into your dean
underclothes. I must try some stale bread for this
smudge on the collar.’

§2

In due course Madame Roustan arrived with Jan;
she was wearing a heliotrope coloured voile dress,
220

mauve gloves, and a mauve hat with white ostrich
tips — the costume very ill became her stout figure.
But Jan in his beautifully cut Paris clothes — the
cloth of which Marie observed was not glossy — with
a bow that was certainly smaller than Ghristophe’s,
and a sleeve badge that had certainly much shorter
ends and in consequence looked less showy but neater,
with a missal of finely tooled crushed morocco, the
gift of Madame la Comtesse de Berac—Jan indeed
seemed well worthy of the Church parade that had
been so adroitly contrived by his mother, and Marie
was ashamed to hear herself sigh as she glanced from
this mirror of fashion to Christophe. Was Christophe’s
white bow just a trifle too large? Ai! las, what a pity
that all her stale bread had not moved that greasy
mark on his collar. And his Prayer-Book . . . oh,
well, as Monsieur had declared . . . still, she did
wish that it could have been of real leather!

She herself had had scarcely any time to dress, and
she now felt dowdy in her faded blue foulard. Loup
had kept her, then Anfos had needed her help, and so,
of course, had Christophe and his father. But how
smart Jouse looked in ms striped brown suit and new
made-up tie — that at least was a comfort. And how
honest and manly her Christophe looked—he possessed
a far finer figure than his cousin.

Madame Romtan was speaking: ‘He is lucky
indeed in having a fiiend like the Comtesse de Berac,
Such a missal! I tremble to think of the cost! And
^e suit, I believe, was made by the tailor who makes
for Madame la Comtesse’s son — as you may have
heard, Jous^, he is in the army, Cuirassiers, I believe.’

All these damned repetitions! Jouse turned and
slapped viciously at a mosquito.

The cousins eyed each other and smiled. Jan said
softly to Christophe: ‘Show me your Prayer-Book.’
Then: ‘I really Uke it much better than mine — mine

221

has too much gold, but do not tell mother. And yours
has a clasp; I wish mine had a clasp! All the same,

she is kind, that lady in Paris.’ _

They both felt extremely self-conscious m their
clothes, a fact which seemed to draw them together.
Christophe’s shoes were pinching abominably, and
he greatly disliked the feel of a waistcoat, though
Jan^ gentleness more than made up for it all —he
could be like this sometimes, wonderfully gentle,
and perceptive too as he had been about the Prayer-
Book.

But now Madame Roustan was impatient to start;
‘Come, my son, we will lead the way;’ she said firmly,
and taking Jan’s arm she stepped out into the street.

What could Marie and Jouse do, therefore, but
follow with Christophe between them? And they all
three eclipsed! ‘Ah, how like her, the insolent female,’
thought Jouse. Then to make matters worse, Anfos
trod on their heels, in his doglike desire to keep close
to Christophe.

Yes, but what of Eusebe? The effrontery of him!
His callous, nay outrageous lack of fine feeling! He
was actually beating his old feather bed as hard as he
could from his bedroom window; grinning and
beating his shameful old bed while the air became
thick with its moth-eaten feathers.

‘Will you stop that?’ shouted Jouse, shaking Ws
fist as a feather lit upon Christophe’s shoulder, ‘Will
you stop that? We are being smothered in your filth!’

‘Eh, what?’ croaked Eusfebe, turning an ear and
pretending that he was almost stone deaf, ‘Go on
beating, you say? Beat harder, you say? But surely,
my friend, I will go on beating!’ And he nearly tore
the bedding in half, so mighty a blow did he give with
his broomstick.

Madame Roustan ignored these _ unseemly pro¬
ceedings, but Eusebe could never ignore Madame

222

Roustan: ‘H6u,’ he shouted at her dignified back,
‘Madame has decked herself like a peacock; and yet I
have heard it said that fine feathers do not necessarily
make a fine bird; and, moreover, that vanity comes
from the devil!’ Then he hoicked and spat recklessly
into the road — he was in a diabolical mood, that
morning.

They continued a slow promenade to the church,
for Madame Roustan, who was setting the pace, had
decided that there was no need to hurry. And now
down the narrow and tortuous side-streets came girls
in long billowing white tulle veils, walking carefully
to spare their expensive suede shoes, and occasionally
patting their wreaths of white roses. Christophe
noticed a couple of boys that he knew, class-mates
who marched stiffly beside their parents; but by
common consent they passed without a word, too
embarrassed and shy to exchange a greeting. Then
came more boys, all wearing wfdte flottant ties and
white sleeve-ribbons in accordance with custom;
then more girls, until the whole town seemed alive
with these solemn and rather touching young creatures.
While away in the open belfiy of Saint Loup the bells
were playing a very old hymn somewhat stiffly
because they themselves were so old: ‘Jesus Christ,
the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the Victim. . . .’

Jouse was thinking as he walked by his son: ‘I have
surely much cause to be humble towards God this
day;’ for the plaintive lilt of the tune had driven the
irritable thoughts from his mind, so that he no longer
observed Madame Roustan or Jan in his beautififily
cut Paris suit, but only the boy who was close at his
side. ‘It is true,’ he mused, ‘I have much cause to be
humble and yet proud when I think of my firstborn
offspring; yes, and of God, who is also a Father, and
of Mary the immaculate Mother of God, and of
Joseph my very dear patron saint who became the

223

pure spouse of that immaculate Mother. . , . It is not
always easy to understand these mysteries: one can
only be humble and grateful.’

‘Jesus Christ, the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the
Victim. . . .’ chimed the bells, ‘the Shepherd, the
Lamb, and the Victim. . . .’

Marie was thinking as she walked by her son:
‘May my child’s Communion bring me faith and
courage, so that I can say to our blessM Lord with
an honest, courageous and truthful heart, “I leave all
to thy infinite wisdom and mercy. . . .” ’

Christophe suddenly slipped his hand into hers.

‘Jesus Christ, the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the
Victim. . . .’ chimed the bells, ‘the Shepherd, the
Lamb, and the Victim. . . .’

And now they were mounting the steps of the
church.

‘Jesus Christ, the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the
Victim. . . .’

And there was Goundran upon the church porch,
very seemly and grave in his best Sunday clothes,
and beside him Elise who was heavy with child so
must wear a long cloak for modesty’s sake, even
although her eyes must proclaim the great joy that
would presently quicken within her. And near
Goundran stood several young fishermen friends;
big, brown-skinned fellows with a smattering of faith
and more than a smattering of superstition. They
had come because they believed that good luck
followed those who attended a First Communion;
that their presence would please Mary-Star-of-the-Sea.

‘Jesus Christ, the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the
Victim. . . .’

And there was Madame Perron’s young brother.
He was hurrying after his sister and niece, despite'
the fact that when he was up north he refused to
believe in God or the devil; despite the fact, too,

224

that the previous night his thoughts had been more
than a little unruly, and his conduct none too chaste
down at the port.

‘Jesus Christ, the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the
Victim. . . .’

And there was Mere Melanie ready to worship,
but also to weep on the least provocation; and there
was M^re Mdanie’s hump-backed violinist who only
last evening had grinned as he played: ‘As tu vu les
fesses de ma belle Louise?’ and similar songs on his
shrill, teasing fiddle. And there was the woman who
sold cherries in the street but who did not always
give you fair measure; and the wretch who was said
to be fabulously rich, to have sacks full of gold hidden
under his bed while pretending to be a destitute
beggar. And there was the pious youth from the shop
in whose window appeared so many fine Prayer-
Books: ‘This is not of real leather,’ he had said many
times, ‘mais Madame, croyez moi, it is even better!’
Was it better, or would it wear out in a month?
N’importe, it was all in the good cause of business.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, some
bringing their children, some coming without them;
for the most part respectable citizens enough, who
paid their just dues to the Church and State, who
married and gave their offspring in marriage; for
the most part weU-soaped and appropriately garbed
in honour of this impressive occasion.

‘Jesus Christ, the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the
Victim. . . .’

The bells stopped abruptly, and now in their
stead the ancient hymn was pealed out by the organ,
and at this M^re Melanie started to sniff, then to dab
at her eyes conspicuously, then to glance at her little
hump-backed violinist.

But in spite of Mere Melanie’s facile tears and
the brandy-soaked breath of her crooked companion;

P 225

in spite of Madame Roustan’s foolish conceits — her
sins and her son and her Comtesse de Berac; in spite
of those large-limbed men from the sea, whose faith
was submerged by their superstition; in spite of the
folly, the meanness, and the sin that will enter even
the holiest place where two or three are gathered
together — yes, in spite of it all, there was something
abroad that was infinitely above and beyond those
people, and yet, as it were, in the midst of them . . .
perhaps God’s incurable optimism flaming up at the
sight of the kneeling children.

The Mass had begun. At the foot of the altar the
Cure was making his public confession and the
children were dutifully striking their breasts: ‘Mea
culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.’ But Ghris-
tophe was clutching the back of the chair upon which
he knelt, and his staring eyes were not on the priest
but were turned to the wall against which stood a
life-like Crucifixion —a large agony fashioned from
wood and paint with much skill by the hands of some
bygone craftsman. And although he had seen the
thing many times and had thought of it only as a
symbol of salvation, he now saw it as the crucified
body of a man, of a man who was very terribly human
— the outraged and bleeding body of a man dying
slowly as he hung there in torment; while in some
incomprehensible and terrifying way this fearful
perception seemed to link itself up with him and with
his approaching Communion. Cowering down he
covered his face with his hands: T cannot ... I
cannot... I cannot. . .’ he thought wildly, scarcely
knowing if he were praying or blaspheming.

Time passed, but he was unconscious of time.
The triple bell rang out sharp and clear as the Cur6
offered the Host to God, then the Chalice, for the
sins of his congregation. But Christophe heard only the
groans of a man, and the man was very terribly human.

226

It had come; the Cure was striking his breast and
speaking quite low but with careful precision, re¬
peating the simple words of his Church very slowly:
‘Domine, non sum dignus. . . Then a sound, a
soft, secretive rustling sound like the sea slipping back
over pebbles in a mist, as the children got quietly up
from their knees and began to move forward with
bowed young heads. Then a voice, rather startled
and close to his ear — his mother’s voice: ‘Christophe,
are you ill. . . ? It is time.’

T cannot . . . but I cannot. . . .’ he thought he
answered.

Yet he found that he must have risen after all
for now he was standing close to Jan in the nave,
then kneeling beside him at the altar rail — he could
feel the touch of his cousin’s slim shoulder.

‘Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi. . . .’ Jan was
passing him the little protective platter. . . . ‘Corp^
Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in
vitam aeternam.’

White with terror he received the proffered Host,
passed the platter blindly on to his neighbour, then
clung to the rail with a kind of despair — for a
moment he had the sensation of falling.

§3

The reactions of youth are not only elastic but they
strongly incline towards self-preservation; thus the
shock of that curious First Communion became less
acute as the weeks wore on and the boy’s conscious
mind strove for explanations that would make the
occurrence appear more normal. He still could not
look at that Crucifixion, it is true, but must always
turn away his eyes from its infinite pathos and in¬
finite horror, but when next he received the Sacra¬
ment he was able to do so with comparative calmness

‘227

— a faint, indefinable shadow of dread was all that
remained of his unreasoning terror. And although
this indefinable shadow of dread did not leave him,
as had done the more violent emotion, he persuaded
himself that it might very well be that everyone felt
such a dread at Communion —so solemn arid so
spiritually vital an event, and those who received
their Lord, so unworthy. But one did not care to
speak of such things, they were far too private and
far too sacred.

His terror — that was not quite so easy to explain;
yet he strove with all his might to explain it. He had
felt very tired; perhaps he had been ill, perhaps he
had even had a high fever . . . Loup would get a
high fever at times and feel queer . . . perhaps he,
Christophe, had been just feeling queer and had not
known that he was actually ill because he was so
unaccustomed to illness. Then would come that
thought of the divinity of Christ, so familiar and m
consequence so reassuring. Jesus Christ, true man
. . . yes, but also true God; and he, Christophe
Benedit, less than nothing, a schoolboy borri and
brought up in Provence, impossible therefore that
the Crucifixion in the church should have any personal
meaning beyond the promise of spiritual salvation.
That was how he had always seen it before, and that
was how he must see it again — as a symbol of his
spiritual salvation.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he would mutter, ‘the Son of God
. . . not as I am, but the veritable Son of God . . .
Ah yes, that undoubtedly makes all the difference!’

But one day he must suddenly catch his breath,
while his heart seemed to stumble and then stand
still, for clear and distinct as the notes of a bugle,
as the warning of the triple Gommuruon bell, there
leapt into his combative, unwilling' mind the mo¬
mentous words: ‘But as many as received Him, to
228

them gave He power to become the sons of God.’
And just for a moment he was conscious again of that
sickening sensation of physical terror. Then his strong
young instinct of self-preservationj which was always so
ready to come to his assistance, leapt up, in its tmn,
to defeat that saying: Tt means,’ he thought violently,
‘that when we are dead we also may be with Jesus
in heaven. That is what those words mean. What
else can they mean? Who would dare to make him¬
self the equal of Christ? Not the Cur6, not Jan, not
even the saints.’ And he frowned, ‘I must certainly
stop all this thinking which the Curd would say
leads to great foolishness, and, moreover, to what is
far worse — presumption. When I go to Mass I will
beg oinr Lord to make me very simple and humble.’

In this wise Christophe sought to explain those
things by which his humanity was so sorely troubled.

229

Chapter xix

I T was early in July when Anatole Kahn made his.

first appearance in the town of Saint Loup —
a stout middle-aged man with a waxed moustache,
whose dark business suit suggested the north, and
whose interest was so great in all he beheld that it
led him to ask innumerable questions. He was
friendly, urbane, and apparently prosperous, to judge
by the wine which he ordered at la Tarasque — vin¬
tage wine, as Mere M^anie afterwards confided to
her cronies; yes indeed, the best in the cellar.

The townsfolk were willing enough to talk, rather
flattered and amused by the admiration which this
stranger expressed for their mountains, their sea,
their vineyards, their houses, and their tortuous
byways. Thus it was that quite soon he was able to
collect a fine packet of practical information. Among
other things which he managed to learn was the fact
that you could not furnish a house save by putting
yourself to the trouble of a journey. You must go to
Marseille for your tables and chairs unless you employed
Jouse Bencdit who, it seemed, was a very remarkable
fellow. A carpenter he was, and a cabinet-maker,
managing to ply both trades with great skill; but
then Benedit was the sort of man who was clever at
anything he turned his hand to — at a pinch he might
even build you a house — ah, yes, a very remarkable
fellow. But slow . . . perhaps he was over conscien¬
tious. He was certainly imbued with the pride of his
230

crafts; nothing but the best must leave his bench, and
the best could not be achieved in a hurry according
to him, so he took his own time. And meanwhile,
of course, you just had to wait, which frequently
made you feel rather impatient. All the same, many
people employed Benedit, nearly everyone did, he
was quite a tradition. Moreover it seemed foolish
to get into a train and go to Marseille — train
journeys cost money.

‘But this Jouse, has he no apprentice?’ asked the
stranger.

‘Well, yes, but the poor Anfos is half-witted. He
is willing, but he needs to be treated like a child;
he cannot do much without Jouse’s supervision.’

‘Then,’ said Anatole Kahn, ‘it comes to this: if
I wish to obtain . . . now let me see . . . say a
drawing room suite upholstered in satin, or a nice
little ornamental clock, or rugs, or pictures, or perhaps
a brass bedstead I must trouble myself to go to
Marseille.’

‘Yes, Monsieur.’

‘Ah,’ he murmured, ‘that seems a real pity.’

He remained for more than a week in Saint Loup,
staying at the small hotel near the station. And
during this time he was joined by three friends who
were thought to be business men of some kind;
and who, judging by the labels on their trunks, came
from Paris. Where he himself came from no one
could guess, since his luggage consisted of a solitary
hand-bag.

But on the whole they aroused little interest, these
strangers, for the weather was unusually oppressive.
A vast indolence had taken hold on Saint Loup so
that even the bells of the church sounded drowsy,
while as for the Cure, he was finding it hard not to
doze as he sat in his airless box hearing those dreary
and monotonous confessions.

231

All the same, one person there was whose interest
was thoroughly aroused, and this was Madame
Roixstan. She had chanced to look out of her bedroom
window and had seen the four men examining the
shop next her own, the shop that had belonged to
a grocer but was now up for sale, he having retired
— and a fine shop it was too, just on the corner.
Then the very next morning they had entered the
shop, having doubtless obtained the key from the
baker; and that same afternoon a fifth man had
arrived bringing with him a long foot-rule and a
note-book. He had also brought many patterns of
paint — little bright-colomed strips on a bit of card¬
board. The strangers had stood together in the street
pointing at the premises of her ex-neighboux, Tnaking
notes, holding patterns of paint against the door,
measuring the frontage, and the Lord knew what-all!
After which they had turned and strolled off down the
quay apparently engaged in earnest conversation.

Presently it was said between coffee and cognac,
between slicing onions and frying potatoes, that the
property was sold to that man who has stayed for a
week at the hotel —there would be a new grocer.
Bien, they hoped that he was honest and above ^
cheap, not a usurer like his predecessor. Who was he?
Well, his name was Anatole Kahn — he had told the
baker that he was an Alsatian. Where was he? Ah,
9a . . . very jjossibly in Toulon arranging about the
title-deeds which was always a long and fatiguing
business. Then yawns, and the matter was melted
fi-om their minds by the well-nigh intolerable heat
of the weather.

Workmen came and began to torment the old shop;
its protests could be heard from morning till evening
as they tore down its groaning interior walls, ripped
up boards and laid pipes for a water supply which
was destined to feed nothing less than a bathroom.

232

At this people really did open their eyes pretty wide
with amazement, in spite of the heat-wave. A bath¬
room, if you please! And the privy in the yard being
dug up with a great deal of swearing and stinking
because Monsieur must have his closet indoors!
But what next would he have? He was doubtless a
marquis! WeU, they wished he was there to enjoy
the stench, and the blowflies, and the clouds of full-
bellied mosquitoes. And what was the marqtus
proposing to sell? Perfumery, perhaps — God knew it
was needed! No, but truly, what was he proposing to
sell? He was making himself a marvellous showroom,
and was actually painting the cellar walls . . .
Putting in the electric light, too, at vast cost. Why, only
' important places had that — the hotel and the railway
station for example. Most sensible people were con¬
tent with lamps, which were not only far less dangerous
but cheaper.

Madame Roustan was irate. All this hubbub and
stench; quite enough, she declared, to ruin her busi¬
ness. And the brick-dust flying about in her shop,
and the rubble piling up in front of her door, and the
drain-pipes piling up against her back fence, and
the ladders jostlmg her decrepit old gutters. So
secretive they were too, the whole lot of them, from the
architect down to the dirtiest workman. Not one word
could she get as to what was afoot, no, nor any
redress, only shrugs and smiles and vague answers to
her loud and indignant questions. As for J6use, he
was utterly unconcerned. What cared he for the
wrongs of his widowed sister! All he asked, it ap¬
pear^, was to be left alone: ‘Do not worry me,
Germaine, I cannot attend — not now — I am really
extremely busy.’ A nice brother! But then naturally
he was unaffected by the dtist, and the stench, and the
droves of mosqtutoes. Nor was the Cur6 much better,
she decided; ^ he did was to counsel restraint and

233

patience; while Goundran was entirely taken up
with Elise - such a fuss about her approaching con¬
finement!

‘Surely a woman without her own man to protect
her is pitiful indeed,’ sighed Madame Roustan.

Then one day who should come strolling into her
shop but the cause of all this outrageous disturbance,
Monsieur Anatole Kahn with his waxed moustache,
his thick northern clothes, and his middle-aged
paunch across which was suspended a handsome gold
watch-chain.

‘Ah, Madame,’ he said suavely, ‘I very much fear
you must greatly dislike your troublesome neighbour.
But quite soon I am hoping that the work will be
done; meanwhile I apologize for any inconvenience.
Believe me, Madame, I have had to be absent my¬
self upon very important business; the fault is my
architect’s, therefore, not mine. I am deeply distressed
to observe that your gutter has been bent — yes, very
deeply distressed. Madame must permit me to pro¬
vide a new gutter.’

He had large ox-like eyes and a very red mouth —
the skin of his lips looked as soft as satin. On each of
his plump, blunt hands he wore rings, though his
nails were habitually soiled and bitten. A vulgar and
over-dressed little man with his light cloth-topped
boots, and his purple necktie, and his hat that appeared
too small for his head; but his eyes were resting on
Madame Roustan with a gentie, persuasive yet
appraising expression.

‘Madame ■v^ forgive me, I trust,’ he murmured.

Now not only had Madame Roustan intended to
express herself forcibly when she met him, but she
had actually drawn up a very long list comprising
each real and imaginary grievance — the stench, the
mosquitoes, the blow-flies, the dust, the noise, and
the damage to her gutters and fencing; every crack

234

in her walls, every scratch on her doors she had care¬
fully, if not always truthfully, noted; yet here she
was Rowing quite flustered and coy because of
Monsieur Kahn’s ox-like eyes with their gentle, per¬
suasive, yet appraising expression.

She said: ‘Eh bien. Monsieur, I will admit that
I and my poor little business have suffered. However,
if the work is now nearly complete and Monsieur is
prepared to replace my bent gutter. . ,

‘There is nothing I am not prepared to replace for
you, ch^re Madame,’ he assured her suavely.

‘Ah, Monsieur is too good.’

‘Not at all, chere Madame, my wish is that we
should be excellent neighbours.’ He sat down. ‘You
see how it is, Madame: I come here to the south
because of my throat — I unfortunately suffer from
tonsilitis. I come here as a stranger, so I go to Mar¬
seille and instruct a good firm to send in careful
workmen; and I also employ a first class architect to
whom I repeat a great number of times: “No in¬
convenience, if you please, to my neighbour; every¬
thing must be done to allay the dust; to avoid all bad
smells when removing that privy; use strong disin¬
fectant,” I am careful to say. He ignores me — there
are smells but no disinfectant. For two months they
have idled; it is now September. Early in October
I must open my shop because I, like yoxirself, have to
work for my living.’ He paused, and she asked him:

‘What will Monsieur sell — if that is not an indis¬
creet question?’

‘By no means, Madame,’ he replied with a smile,
‘I propose to seU everything for the home — in Paris
I had a furnishing business. I think that Saint Loup
is a coming place, and that therefore it provides an
excellent opening.’ And he smiled again, gently
stroking his moustache. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, ‘a most
excellent opening.’

235

Madame Roustan was completely taken aback:
‘But Monsieur, we are poor, and our tastes are so
simple . . . my brother. • -

He waved these objections aside: ‘Saint Loup will
not always be poor, I assure you. Ch^re Madame,
believe me, the day will arrive when your charming
Saint Loup will become the fashion. A fine beach,
a warm sea, cheap wine, cheap fruit, much sunshine
and really exquisite mountains. What do you think
brought me here, chere Madame — apart, of course,
from my tonsilitis? A small picture, it was, that
brought me here, a picture of the harbour with the
mountains beyond — I discovered it on the Rive
Gauche in Paris. I said to the salesman: “How much
does he want?” And he answered: “Not much, he
is quite a poor artist.” Then I said: “I will take his
name and address, in addition to which I will buy
his bad picture.” Madame, the thing is a master¬
piece; you shall see it, I have it in my portmanteau.
Bien, Madame, this spring when I visited the Salon
there were two more pictures by that same artist,
pictures of the little side-streets of your town — very
cleverly done, very clean, true colour. The man’s
name is Beauvais; I believe he is young and that
those were his first important exhibits. But the
point is this; his pictures were attracting a very great
deal of admiration, so that doubtless this Beauvais
will come here again, and through him may well
come other good artists, and through them the town
of Saint Loup will get known — they will do all otir
advertising for notmng. Ah, Madame, forgive me
if my tongue runs away, the fault lies with my great
enthusiasm. Already I see Paris gowns in your win¬
dow, and fine lingerie, and gay bathing costumes . . .’

‘In my window?’ she asked him incredulously.

‘But surely, Madame — in your window, why not?
It will be but a step from the drapery business.’

236

‘It sounds like a marvellous dream. . . she
faltered.

‘But a dream that is going to come true,’ he told
her. Then he got up; ‘Madame, I have kept you too
long. I talk too much, it is my greatest weakness.’
And he gallantly pressed a kiss on her hand. ‘I go
now to give orders about that new gutter.’

She watched him as he hurried away down the
quay, no doubt going in search of his absent foreman.
Such ideas; she was feeling quite upset, and yet with-
aU rather pleasantly excited. Then she thought:
‘Why not? The man may be right ... we certa^y
have the most excellent bathing. Belli santo, our Saint
Loup as a summer resort, frequented by rich and
fashionable people . . . and I selling Paris models
in my shop, and fine lingerie, instead of bone buttons!
AJi, mais non, he is mad, that poor Monsieur Kahn
. . . yet who knows, such things must have happened
before . . . there must surely always have been a
beginning. . . .’ Amd she suddenly decided to find
M^re Melanie and discuss these surprising possibilities
over a small cup of coffee at la Tarasque.

§2

That evening Madame Roustan went to visit her
brother. She foimd the Benedits in the parlour;
Marie was darning a pair of socks and Jdus^ was
quietly reading his paper.

‘Ah, Germaine,’ said Marie. Then: ‘Loup,
bring up that chair. Christophe, go and fetch wine
and biscuits from the kitchen, but keep your greedy
hand out of the tin! They are fond of sweet biscuits,
my sons,’ she said smiling.

Jouse laid aside his paper: ‘Good evening,’ he
grunted.

Madame Roustan began the moment she sat down:

237

‘I fear I am the bearer of very grave tidings. I fear
. . there ensued a long, meaning pause.

Then Jouse said with a malicious grin: ‘Do not
tell us that you have been excommunicated!’

‘That remark is in very bad taste,’ she informed
him, ‘and I do not propose to discuss religion. I
have come to tell you that Anatole Kahn is about to
open a furnishing business.’

‘And who may he be?’ enquired Jouse blandly.

‘That you surely must know, for the whole town is
talking. He has bought the big comer shop next to
mine, the shop of Monsieur Dubois, the grocer.’

‘Attendez. . . .’ murmured Jous^, pretending to
think hard, ‘I remember, he has just installed a fine
bathroom. The sea was too smdl for him, I have
heard — not sufficiently wet, not quite enough
water. . . .’

‘He will also install many other fine things, and
more is the pity,’ Madame Roustan said tartly. Then
before her brother had time to reply, she plunged into
an animated description of the future of Saint Loup,
according to Kahn, ^d of all that this prophet would
most certainly sell in his handsome and up-to-date
shop on the corner.

‘But’ said Marie, interrupting, ‘who will buy his
cheap rubbish when my husband here gives such fine
value for money? Honest tables and chairs and all
made by hand. ... I fear that your poor Monsietir
Kahn is foolish. In Saint Loup we know where it
is wise to spend.’ And she laughed a little, nodding
her head. Then: ‘A small glass of wine, Germaine?’
she suggested.

But Christophe was not deceived by the laugh:
‘She is frightened,’ he thought, ‘she is really very
frightened.’

Jduse said, as he yawned and stretched his great
legs: ‘You come here, my sister, with what you
238

imagine — I do not say hope, I say what you imagine
— are unpleasant and perhaps even evil tidings.
But believe me, I shall live to see my son Christophe
carry on this old and honourable business. Your
fiiend may sell a few musical boxes, or perhaps
cuckoo-clocks — that I think more than likely. I
myself will buy one of his cuckoo-clocks if only to amuse
the poor, childish Anfos. For the rest, he is doomed to
failure, your friend; our people know the value of
well-seasoned timber.’

‘But’ she argued, ‘suppose many strangers should
come, suppose they should come in summer for the
bathing and need things in a hurry — beds and tables
and things. . . .’

‘Rubbish, you are talking rubbish!’ laughed Jouse,
‘Where would they live, these fine people of yours?
Do not be so completely ridiculous, my sister. No,
no, I shall not sleep a wink less well because Monsieur
Kahn will open his shop with a firework display
some time in October! On the contrary, Germaine,
I am really quite pleased — it may be that his little
venture will prove useful. Rugs you said he would
sell, among other things; eh bien, Marie needs a new
rug for this room. She and I will be his first customers,
for I fear that he will not last very long, it would
therefore be wise to purchase our rug before the
inevitable disaster.’

Madame Roustan thought: ‘Is my brother a fool?
Or is Monsieur Kahn, and not he, the fool? So much
money that poor Monsieur Kahn must have spent
. . . yet I carmot believe quite all that he said . . .
I cannot quite see Paris gowns in my window. . . .
And, moreover, Jouse is correct in one thing: if
those grand people came to us where would they live?
They could not well live in tents on the beach, and our
only hotel is exceedingly small ... to accommodate
tourists one must have many houses.’ Aloud she said:

239

‘Let us hope you are right —it is naturally more
serious for you than for me. I do not myself make
tables and chairs, I sell buttons and tapes to gain my
living. And then, I have only one son to think of,
and he is already provided for, thanks to the Church
and Madame de Berac. Ah, yes, it is more grave for
you than for me. But no doubt the good saints will
hold you in mind, remembering that you have a wife
and two children, and the one child so ailing that he
costs a small fortune what with his diet and his
doctor’s bills . . . ai, ai, . . .’ After which en¬
couraging words she got up, kissed Marie, and took
her departure.

When she had gone Jouse slapped his big knee and
guffawed; ‘Oh, that sister of mine, she is comic!
She comes here full of hope that we shall all weep.
What a woman, the breath of her nostrils is affliction.
She is one of those who carry a ready-made cap to
fit fears: “Put it on,” she says. But I answer: “Your
neat little cap does not fit me!” “It is graver for you
than for me,” she says, have a wife and two
children to provide for; but no doubt the good saints
yrill hold you in mind, remembering that one child
is always ailing.” Ah, mais non, she would pick the
eyes out of a corpse; a positive vulture she is, my
sister! Well, now, I say tiiis: let Anatole Kahn, or
whatever his name is, go to the devil. I am Jous^
B«nedit, bom and bred in Saint Loup as my father
was bom and bred here before me, as his father was
bom and bred here before him; and always we have
lived by the honesty of wood, by the honesty and sMll
of our brains and our fingers. Birth and death, death
and birth our good beds have sustained, to say
nothing of fine, sturdy Christian mating. There are
beds in Saint Loup that my grandfather made, as sound
this night as the day when he made them. Does that
count for nothing? Sant Jan I’ami de Dieu, it counts
240

for a lot in the eyes of our people. I am willing to
put my trust in our fnends — for that matter in all
who have had dealings with me. Am I, Jouse Benedit,
to shake in my shoes because some mad upstart
arrives from nowhere with yams about the gro\^ of
a town which has not grown one inch in two hundred
years? We shall next be hearing that the bells of
Saint Loup have jumped out of their belfry and run
off to Paris; that the good saint himself has hopped
down from his niche and is drinking a petit verre at
la Tarasque — so progressive, so modern have we
become with our furniture emporiums and our grand
summer season! Ah, no Marioun; do not look so
pensive, you shall eat bouillabaisse for many a day —
yes, the bouillabaisse blanche shall you eat, and
chicken. Never fear, Marioun, but that Jouse will
provide, as he always has done, for his wife and
children. Your J6us6 believes in the good sense of
his clients, and Ms clients wiU continue to believe in
your Jous^. And now kiss me, my wife, and you also,
my sons; then let us go happily up to our beds and
dream of that cuckoo-clock wMch I shall buy in order
to give a little pleasure to Anfos.’ So saying he gave
them each a rough hug, kissed them each on both
cheeks, and then took Ms wife’s arm: ‘Come, my
dear, or I shall not get up in the morning.’

And indeed he did suddenly feel very tired, after
tMs, for him, long and eloquent speech wMch had set
him perspiring from head to foot. But that mght he
slept not one wMt the less soimdly because of the
advent of Anatole Kahn who was going to provide all
things for the household.

Chapter xx

§i

P RECISELY as the clock struck two p.m. on October
the second Kahn would open his shop, and
this because two and two make four, which he always
considered his lucky number. From an early hour
on that autumn morning a youth was distributing
circulars announcing the event to all who would
take them; a stranger he was who had come from
Paris, and his open-necked shirt exposed a skin of
such whiteness when compared with the sun-bronzed
skins of the south, that it looked positively indecent.
However, he was smart enough at his job and by
noon nearly everyone down at the port had received
the news that Anatole Kahn would display a superb
and unique collection of furniture at popular prices
— Louis Quinze and Louis Seize not excepted.

Goundran smiled rather ruefully to himself as he
scanned the long list of advertised objects; he must
keep Elise’s hand out of his pocket. But all the same
he took the thing home.

‘We will go,’ said his wife with unusual decision.
Then: ‘I see there are clocks. . .

‘Yes, and pictures,’ added Goundran.

‘And brass bedsteads;’ sighed Elise, ‘it is foolish,
I know, yet how much I long for a really nice bed
made of brass.’

Goundran thought: ‘And her time is so near, it
has almost arrived . . . could I possibly afford it?’
Marie —who while doing her morning shopping
242

had stopped to chat with the corn-chandler’s wife
about the prices of food, Loup’s persistent asthma,
and the corn-chandler’s son who was Jouse’s godchild
— Marie had a circular thrust into her hand by the
young man from Paris.

‘What is this?’ she enquired.

‘If Madame will give herself the trouble to read it.

. . . And you also, Madame,’ he said nonchalantly
as he handed another to the good Madame Simon.

The com-chandler’s wife clipped on her glasses:
‘Te, it is Kahn, that new man at the port who will
open his shop this afternoon. I think I must go, it
may well be amusing. Not that we have any money
to buy, Guillaume’s business college has cost a great
deal, but the boy is so clever that one does not regret
. , . and now that he will come home and help his
parents. . . . Such a fine boy he grows; and he
sent his love to his godfather when he last wrote
from Marseille: “Give my love to Papa Jouse,” he
said. Now what have I done with that dear child’s
letter? I thought I had it here in my bag. . . .’

But Marie, excusing herself on the plea that she
would be late, turned and hurried away with the
circular feeling like lead in her pocket.

Arrived home she went in search of her husband.
He was waiting about in the kitchen with the children;
Loup was peering into a simmering saucepan and
s niffin g its contents, Christophe was reading, and
Jouse was staring out of the window.

She thought suddenly: ‘My man ... his back
looks quite old . . . he is ageing, my man.’ And
this thought was so painfiil that the stab of it made
her speak almost sharply: ‘Kahn has many fine
things to sell,’ she announced, ‘and moreover he will
sell them at popular prices. Look at this,’ and she held
out the circular, ‘it is being distributed all over the
town —he is going to open this very afternoon!’

243

‘That I have already heard,’ said Jouse. He read
the announcement, then he laughed very loudly:
‘Louis Quinze, Louis Seize, this thing says he will
sell us! Yes, no doubt, Marioun, but then who will
buy? That is what I ask you. Ah, mais non, Louis
Quinze!’ And crushing the circular in his hand he
hurled it, still laughing, into the comer.

But le tout petit Loup had now pricked up his ears,
for he much wished to know the contents of that
paper, so he promptly retrieved it, spread it out on
his knee and read in his turn: ‘Gramophones . . .’ he
murmured.

‘What is that?’ enquired J6us6, swinging heavily
round.

‘Gramophones, and I wish to possess one,’ an¬
nounced Loup.

‘Ah, really, and what else do you wish to possess?’
Jduse’s voice sounded suddenly ominous.

‘Many things that I find in this list,’ Loup told
him.

Christophe nudged his brother, then he trod on
his foot with rather more vigour than he had intended.

‘Why are you treading on my toe, imbecile? Get
off it!’ bawled Loup, as he doubled up his fist.

‘Do not threaten me like that with your fist!’
flared Christophe.

‘Then keep your enormous feet out of my way.’

‘I will not!’

‘You have feet like an elephant’s!’

‘Ah, bien, you have feet me size of a bug’s!’

‘Maman, maman, Christophe has cafled me a
bug!’

‘Oh, be silent, both of you;’ exclaimed Marie,
‘Santo Ano d’At. I am late as it is. Stop quarrelling
if you wish to remain in my kitchen.’

Jouse shrugged his shoulders: ‘Such a hubbub,’
he muttered, ‘and a man who has worked for long
244

hours feels tired — since five this morning have I
been at my bench, and now nothing to eat, the food
is not ready!’ Turning, he blundered out of the
room,

‘He looks tired, that is true enough,’ thought
Marie. Then she snatched Kahn’s announcement
away from Loup, opened the door of the stove, and
burnt it.

But Christophe sat as stiff as a ramrod in his chair,
for his eyes were suddenly aching with tears: if he
moved by so much as an inch they must fall, and at
his age one did not shed tears, it was childish.

§2

Much secrecy had been observed by Kahn with
regard to the arrangement of his fine new shop and
the dressing of his two spacious plate-glass windows.
The goods, when they had come out of their vans,
had been swathed like so many sacred mummies, and
once they had entered his premises all the doors had
been locked and the blinds drawn down before any¬
one had started impacking.

‘No doubt with his grand electricity he can well
afford to dispense with mere daylight,’ people had
jeered; but nevertheless there was quite a large crowd
in front of the shop a little before the hour of the
opening.

Two strokes from the clock and up went the blinds,
while the doors were fitmg wide with a princely
flomish. And there stood the youth of the circulars
with a big bobbing bundle of air balloons, bearing
the inscription: ‘Gal^ries Kahn’ on their taut,
rotund sides of many colours.

‘Prenez, Madame! Prenez, Messieurs et Dames,
pour VOS enfants. Voil^, ma petite! Encore un?
Encore deux? Mais voila! Joli, hein?’ And he
dexterously disentangled the btmcfie.

245

Then Anatole Kahn stepped forward with a bow.
Very smart he was, wearing a pearl in his necktie,
wearing pale grey trousers with heavy black stripes,
and a flower in the buttonhole of his jacket. He felt
honoured, he said, indescribably honoured by the
presence of so many distinguished clients. As a
stranger to their beautiful town of Saint Loup he
knew himself to be at a real disadvantage, yet he
dared to hope for their patronage on the strength of
his honest and untiring endeavours to deal fairly by
all —five hundred francs or one franc, they would
find it just the same thing when it came to receiving
good value for their money. The most trivial pur¬
chase was an honour conferred, and would thus
receive his personal attention.

And now came the strains of the Marseillaise from
a large gramophone at the back of the showroom.
Most stirring it was, they all had to admit; such a
fine record too, a real military band — Boudieu,
one could fancy one saw the men marching! And
that over, came a jolly new popular song, words and
all, from the Folies Bergeres in Paris. Then the ballet
music from Faust — Boudieu, one could almost fancy
one saw the girls dancing! The devil must be in it!
These granaophones . . . M^re Mdanie’s hump¬
backed fiddling friend would undoubtedly have to
look to his laurels!

They jostled and laughed and flicked the balloons
and fingered the stock and examined price labels.
They went down to the cellar which was brilliantly
lighted and contained an assortment of rugs and
mattings. They swarmed up the stairs to the first-
floor showroom where cots and new-fangled peram¬
bulators suggestively elbowed double-bedsteads. But
beyond an insignificant trifle or two — a vase, a small
tray and suchlike objects — they apparently had not
come there to buy, in spite of the really surprising
246

cheapness of much that Anatole Kahn had to offer.

Goundran stood gazing at a flashy brass bed which
possessed a particularly striking mattress — green and
white ticking with a small orange line ; and beside
him, clinging to his arm, stood Elise: ‘Ah, que c’est
ravissant!’ she kept saying.

And hearing her, Anatole Kahn stepped forward:
‘It is also exceedingly cheap;’ he assured them,
‘the best hair and wool, the best lacquered brass.
Then Madame has doubtless remarked the design,
dignity with lightness, quite le dernier chic — such
bedsteads are now all the rage in Paris.’

But Goundran shook his head: ‘Not to-day, my
friend — even the cheapest article costs money. We
must think it over; is that not so, Elise?’ For Goundran
was a thrifty if devoted husband. Yet he thought:
‘How much I should like to purchase that bedstead
for the little one’s coming confinement . . .’ And he
gently pressed his wife’s arm as he whispered: ‘Do not
despair, I may buy it for you yet; we will go into our
banking account this evening.’

It was not until late in the afternoon that Jous^
arrived upon the scene, and with him came his wife,
his two sons, and Anfos. Jous^ moved with a kind of
majestic precision, squaring his heavy and ageing
shoulders. His chin with its thick curly beard was
thrust out, his eyes and his lips were quietly smiling.

‘Let us see what this mountebank has to sell,’ he
remarked to no one in particular as they stopped in
firont of Kahn’s largest window.

Oh, that plate-glass window of the Galeries Kahn —
the meanness, the blatant untruthfulness of it! The
drawing room suite k la Louis Quinze, thin gilt
already beginning to rub, cherry-coloured, half¬
cotton, deceitful satin; the inadequate tables with
spindle legs, and joints that would gape at the least
provocation; the marble-topped, bow-fronted chests

247

of drawers that had nothing substantial about them
but the marble; the cabinets with flimsy untrustworthy
locks and glass that distorted because of its cheapness;
the plush piano-covers with applique flowers and
borders of tinsel that a breath would tarnish. . , ,

There were rugs of so-called Oriental designs that
had never known the Orient or its weavers; there were
clocks whose outsides suggested Buhl, but whose
insides suggested an operation; there were trays
made for Einrope by a crafty Japan who was careful
that she herself did not use them; there were joss-
sticks whose smell would have brought a blush to the
cheeks of the most hardened heathen idol; there
were pictmres in iniquitous machine-carved frames,
pictures covertly suggestive and crudely sentimental,
ikid hanging in the very midst of it all — a most lovely,
simple, and truthful conception — was ‘The Angelus’
framed in grave, quiet oak, looking as helplessly out
of place as a nun who should find herself in a brothel.

Jous^ stood with his hands thrust deep into his
pockets wMle his eyes grew incredulous and then angry;
a man who had toiled for many long years he had
earned a right of kinship to that picture, to the
humble yet unparalleled dignity of patient, enduring,
and honest labour.

Marie asked him timidly: ‘Shall we go in?’

He nodded, and they turned and entered the
building.

Kahn saw them and pushed his way through the
crowd: ‘I am proud to make your acquaintance,’ he
said suavely, and he held out a hand which J6us6
ignored.

‘I have come here to buy a rug for my wife — and a
cuckoo-clock.’ J6us6 told him foefly.

‘And a gramophone!’ chirped le tout petit Loup,
glancing out of the corner of an eye at Christophe.

They made their way down to the now transformed
248

cellar accompanied by Anatole Kahn in person: ‘I
repeat,’ persisted Anatole Kahn, ‘that I am most
proud to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Benedit,
to know so distingmshed a confrere.’

Jous^ stared at him and the stranger fell silent;
whereupon Marie hastened to select her rug which
Jouse, still without speaking, paid for.

Then Anfos unexpectedly lost his head. Perhaps
he was subconsciously feeling the tension, or perhaps
it was merely that the noise and the crowd and the
somewhat rash promise of a cuckoo-clock had thrown
him into a state of excitement; be that as it may,
he proceeded to cuckoo. And so exact were the notes
he produced, so wonderfully clever his imitation, that
people turned round incredulously.

‘Yes, yes, in a minute — htish, my dear,’ implored
Marie.

He caught hold of her hand like the child that
he was — like the great bearded child that he was,
le pauvre bougre: ‘But you promised!’ And now he
was tugging at her hand.

‘This way, if you please,’ remarked Kahn quite
gravely.

There were only two cuckoo-clocks it appeared,
the one very big, the other very little. The price
of the larger was much too high; Jouse muttered that
it was out of the question. The price of the smaller
he could well afford, and this he decided to give his
apprentice. So the clock was taken down from the
wall and placed by Kahn in the arms of the half-wit.

‘B^u Dieu!’ murmured Anfos softly.

Then le tout petit Loup felt that his turn had
come: ‘And where is my gramophone?’ he demanded
louiy. ‘\^y may I not have my gramophone? _ Am I
not of more importance than he is?’ And he pinched
Anfos so that the clock nearly fell.

‘Do not hurt me. . . Ah, do not hurt me;’ implored

249

Anfos, his brown, dog-like eyes growing suddenly
frightened.

‘Leave him alone!’ ordered Christophe sharply.

But Loup scowled; he was thoroughly out of temper.
Owing to the lateness of their arrival he had not
even managed to get a balloon, the supply, by that
time, having been exhausted: ‘I will surely break his
ridiculous clock if I may not have my gramophone!’
he threatened.

‘In that case you can go without your supper;’
remarked Marie.

§3

They made their way home in comparative silence,
Anfos diligently nursing his cuckoo-clock; Marie
keeping a watchful eye upon Loup; Christophe
apparently lost in thought, and Jouse staring down
at his shoes.

But after a while Jouse looked up grinning: ‘I
did not observe much fine business, Marioun; Louis
Quinze and Louis Seize are still on their thrones, and
I fancy they are perfectly safe to remain there. What
a scrap-heap — what rubbish! Yes, but also what an
insult to the common sense and good taste of our
tovra. I felt almost sorry for the impudent fellow.’

‘I will break that ridiculous clock!’ repeated Loup.

‘No ... no ... it is beautiful . . .’ Anfos whis¬
pered.

But that evening poor Anfos broke it himself,
for he could not resist its affable inmate who burst
open his door, bowed, flapped his grey wings, and
then cuckooed in such an ingratiating manner that
Anfos must jump up and down for sheer joy, and
must move the hands of the clock round and round
so that he might go on hearing the cuckoo. This he
did such a number of consecutive times that the kind
250

little bird became quite exhausted, and finally stuck
half in and half out with his head at a very reproachful
angle.

Then Anfos began to murmur strange names,
strange endearing names of his own invention ; then
he started to whistle the soft double note wherewith he
had used to attract the wild birds when he lived in
that village high up in the mountains; then he kissed
the cuckoo’s minute pointed beak: ‘Talk, talk to me —
talk again!’ he entreated.

But the cuckoo answered never a word, for the
fragile spring of his life had been broken.

And so joy was miserably turned to tears —large
tears trickled down the half-wit’s thin cheeks and
mmgled with the straggling hairs of his beard as he
stood there and gazed at his own destruction. And
knowing that any emotion was harmful, Marie
coaxed him gently upstairs to his bedroom, and
undressed him, and put on his coarse linen nightshirt.
Then she promised to bring him a tisane de menthe —
a tisane de menthe made excessively sweet like the
one which had once helped to comfort Christophe —
but this only if Anfos would be a good child, get into
his bed, and try to stop weeping.

Chapter xxi

C HRISTMAS came and went, the mistral subsided,
the sea grew placid and warm in the sunshine!
The vines showed illusive suggestions of green, and
the mulberry branches began to make leaves where¬
with they would nourish industrious silk-worms. The
sturdy, peeled brown trunks of the cork-trees appeared
to take on a more intense colour, so that they matched
the people’s tanned limbs, and the brown honest fkce
of Goundran who smiled — always smiled, these
days, because his wife had presented him with a fine
infant daughter —and the brown, monkey face of
le tout petit Loup, and the brown sardonic face of
Eusebe.

Eus^be was feeling lazy this spring; he dawdled
about a great deal in his vineyards, neglecting his
work and his clients alike, while his bedroom became
unspeakably dirty. He drank deep of red wine and
thought many deep thoughts of a somewhat undesir¬
able nature: ‘Ah, this wonderful land of my birth —’
he would chant, ‘this wonderful land of vines and
plump women. Is there anything lacking in this
Provence of ours? We have grapes, also plump, and
the grapes have juices and the juices are squeezed
into casks of our making. Why, the very trees strip
themselve$ of their clones in order to provide us
with corks for our bottles! Only look at her beautiful
naked brownness — she resembles a woman that
252

superb Chene Liege! And like a woman the more
you strip her the better she is, the finer she grows;
leave her intact and she withers away . . And one
evening he was actually seen to embrace the stout,
unresponsive waist of a cork-tree. What a scandal,
the lascivious, drunken old rogue! Gould nothing be
done with that shameless Eusebe?

The weeks passed; scarlet cherries were sold in the
streets, and baskets of succulent, moist, green almonds.
The maquis began to smell vital on the hills, while
the rhythmical whirr of enamoured cingalas in the
Cure’s garden so distracted his mind that he shut all
his windows when writing a sermon. To the thickets
came endless nightingales, singing snatches of song
even while it was yet daylight, in memory of the
kindly act of Saint Loup who had once restored its
life to a fledgling: ‘Praise God in His Golden Saints;’
they sang, ‘Praise God . . . in . . . His Golden
. . . His Golden Saints.’ For whatever the Cure
might choose to think, all the birds of Provence be¬
lieved in that legend. The couleuvres, irresistibly
drawn to the sun, slid out of the woods and began
to uncoil their handsome and conspicuous lengths —
most unwisely. Christophe’s lizards up at the old
citadel, lay sprawled on the stones, their throats
palpitating, their eyes ablink, their tongues darting
for flies; while below, through the tortuous streets
of the town lumbered farm carts drawn by cream-
coloured oxen.

And meanwhile there was always Anatole Kahn
dressed in his unsuitable northern clothes which,
for some strange reason, he never discarded. Ah,
yes, there was ^ways Anatole Kahn, affable, smiling,
but growing more insistent, for slowly but surely he
was making his way with these good-natured, indo¬
lent southern people. His shop was so very conveni¬
ently placed, and then it was easy to buy firom a shop

253

— such a saving of time, such a saving of trouble.
Moreover they liked what he had to sell; he was not
perverting the taste of his clients, but rather was he
dexterously bringing to light a desire for his goods
which had always existed. Quite a number of people
had secretly envied that shiny, mock-mahogany suite
purchased by Madame Roustan’s late husband ; and
now similar suites could not only be seen any day
and bought by those who had money, but this could
be done without catching a train, without incurring
the least inconvenience.

Yes, but Anatole Kahn meant much more than this:
he meant more than the saving of mere inconveni¬
ence, than the pleasant indulgence of extravagant
desires on the plea that his goods were ridiculously
cheap, his delivery prompt, and his terms quite easy,
for Anatole Kahn had begun to mean romance —
the unromantic romance of the pocket.

Oh, but he was tactful. Monsieur Anatole Kahn,
with his soft brown eyes, and his over-red lips from
which he would let fall words as of honey. Never a
suggestion that could lead them to feel that they had
been slow-witted, indolent sluggards; by ignoring
their lost opportunities he had all the more time to
devote to their future. And the future was what
mattered, said Anatole Kahn, the future of the
beautiful town of Saint Loup that would shortly
become known all over France as a summer resort of
the first importance. And when he spoke thus his
soft eyes would gleam as though with the flame of
inspired prevision, while his voice would take on the
emotioned timbre of a man who knows himself for
a prophet, so that those who heard him would go
home much impressed in spite of themselves:

‘H6u, what ideas! Yet one mxist admit that he
carries conviction. But then who will come to our
town in the heat — always excepting a few crazy

254

artists? A bathing season, he would have us believe,
and in consequence business, and in consequence
money. . .

He was patient, he listened to every objection, he
frowned, rubbed his chin and appeared to consider.
He frequently nodded: well, they ought to know best,
yet he could not but feel that a ifew pretty villas
just beyond the town on the road to the hills . . .
or say down near the beach to the left of the port.
The road-bed was not bad —as the place became
known people could easily reach it in motors. Why
not? The mountains? Well, but what of them?
People could reach Saint Loup by the Comiche.
But he did not wish to appeartoo aggressive—after ail he
was only a recent arrival — still, he did feel that great
possibilities having once been foreseen should be
carefully prepared for. The shortage of houses was
a drawback, of course — a most serious drawback
when it came to tourists.

And as though fate were playing right into his
hands, who shoiald arrive that summer but Beauvais,
the very man whose picture he had bought, and who
since that purchase had sprung into fame, thanks to
those first exhibits at the Salon. And following like
a tail in the wake of a comet, came quite a fair
number of lesser artists, all eager to paint, all willing
to pay within reason for decent accommodation.
Why, the little hotel near the station was crowded,
what with their models, their wives, and their
easels, a happening that had never been heard of
before —the proprietor was beside himself with
excitement.

At la Tarasque much vermouth was consumed
after bathing, but at night as the moon came up
drinks grew stronger. They were young these arrivals,
they were spendthrift and gay, so things started to
hum when, their work being over, the little violinist

255

with the hump on his back teased their feet to dancing,
and M^re Melanie’s brandy plus his fiddle turned
their scatter-brained thoughts to women. But how
witty they were; ah, yes, and how friendly — pro¬
mising to paint the walls of the cafe with all sorts
of amusing fantasies. And then, thanks to them, her
business was booming.

There was only one tiresome fly in the ointment:
the fishers greatly resented this invasion, while the
men from the tartanes had begun to scowl darkly on
finding that all their tables were taken — it was lucky,
perhaps, that Mere Melanie’s new friends did not
understand the Provengal language. Indeed, one
evening there was quite a to-do when a giant called
Ravous stalked into the cafe supporting a comrade
who was heavy with wine, and demanding that they
should be given a table.

‘Malan de Dieu!’ swore Ravous-the-mighty; and
once launched there gushed from him invectives so
amazing that Mere Melanie began to grow nervous
for her guests, and above all for her little hump¬
backed violinist. Moreover, in spite of those strong
beetle-brows which gave to her face such a virile
expression, and in spite of that glorious and memorable
night when, unaided, she had vanquished a drunken
seaman, Ravous’s bulk was so vast that no two men
in the room could have budged him an inch without
his permission.

Said he, having finally nm out of insults: ‘My
comrade is being grossly insulted! He is drunk, you
say, well then, I teU you, no! And if he is drunk,
then I ask you, what of it? I also am now about to
get drunk, very drunk, and for that I require a chair,
and a table on which I can rest my bottle. Yes,
and what I require I intend to take!’ And he threw
back his shoulders and bulged his muscles, ‘Uno,
dous, tres!’ he boomed ominously, ‘Who, I wish to
256

know, is going to get up before I trouble myself to
remove him?’

No one trembled, since no one had understood
a word, Im furious face merely causing much laughter;
but the little violinist was now really afraid, and this
not without reason perhaps, knowing Ravous. Sidling
across to Mere Melanie: ‘Coax him, ma cherie —
try coaxing,’ he whispered.

So Mere Melanie patted the monster’s cheek, then
she ruffled his hair: ‘Sois gentil,’ she entreated,
‘do not threaten your poor little Mere Melanie who
has always felt a tenderness for her big Ravous. Is
it kind to bully your Mere Melanie who depends upon
clients to gain her a living? Come and kiss yom: little
M^re Melanie. . . .’

‘Ah, that no!’ growled Ravous, looking suddenly
scared.

‘Tafort!’ hiccoughed his comrade, ‘Go and kiss the
old whore!’

Ravous scowled, then he gulped hard, closing his
eyes: ‘Bono Maire de Dieu . . . ’ he groaned as he
kissed her.

The room rang with applause. To M^re Melanie’s
relief, her clients appeared amused and delighted.
They were artists of course, and no man in Saint Loup
w^ more picturesque in appearance than Ravous
with his faded check shirt, his red neckerchief, his
bare tattooed arms, and his little gold ear-rings; it
was therefore advisable to welcome him, perhaps. . . .

‘Go and bring in a table from the kitchen this instant,
and make haste about it!’ she bawled to the waiter.

So Ravous was placed at the end of the cafd and
was given a generous portion of brandy as was also
his comrade, by now half asleep, but continually
being roused up by Ravous who wished to assure him
that he was not drunk, and that if he were dr unk he
was dnmk with honour.

R

257

‘The honour of my friend is my own,’ he declared
many times, ‘for I, Ravous, love my dear friend . , ,
ah, how much I love him . . . my very dear friend
. . . I would die for my friend.’ He was fast growing
maudlin. And presently, he supporting his friend,
they danced, upsetting two chairs in the process.

But some of the fishers — although less aggressive
than the men who sailed the seas in the tartanes —
some of the fishers were also less forgiving, and from
that night on they transferred their custom to the
cafe further along the port, the cafe that belonged to
Mere Melanie’s rival.

§2

It was only natural that Anatole Kahn should
desire to become acquainted with Beauvais; had he
not recognized the man’s greatness and in consequence
bought that picture of the harbour for next to nothing
when its painter was starving? Yes, assuredly, for
Anatole K^n possessed the Jew’s fine appreciation
of art despite those iniquitous plate-glass windows —
he sold in order to grow rich and buy, what he sold
being very different indeed from what, should he
prosper, he would care to purchase. Then again,
this Beauvais, this now wealthy fellow with his genius,
his sudden fame, his admirers, was a valuable asset
to the town of Saint Loup and thus to Anatole Kahn’s
ambitions; nay more, to his dreams, for, strange
though it may seem, there were moments when Kahn
became a Reamer. And if he dreamed cheaply and
hideously, if he dreamed of a town outraged and dis¬
figured, if his dreams like his shop were directly
opposed to the spirit that clung to a small oil painting
which could now be sold for a large sum of money —
enough money to acquire’^'quite a nice bit of land —
it must not be forgotten that the mind of man is a
mass of distressingly strange contradictions.

258

To meet Jacques Beauvais was not at all easy,
Kahn racked his ingenious brain to no purpose. He
knew him by sight, a most elegant person wearing
white silk shirts and tussore silk trousers; a young
man with a handsome, weak face, fair hair, slim
flanks, a jade cigarette case and a mistress. But he
could not very well accost him in the street, nor could
he present himself at the hotel on the grounds that
the celebrated Galeries Kahn would amply repay the
trouble of a visit. And yet, after all, it was the
Galeries Kahn that chanced to come to the help of
their founder.

Beauvais needed some drapery for a background:
‘Well, and what have you got?’ he demanded crossly,
‘I cannot find anything but striped umbrellas in
this town —even a dark table-cloth would do.’
Then glancing about him: ‘My God, what horrors!
This shoj3 did not exist when I was here last. It ought
not to exist now — I think I will burn it!’

Kahn smiled an indulgent, paternal smile: ‘Ah,
monsieur, we others we also must live, and to do that
we must give people what they desire. Is this table¬
cloth suitable? Its colour is dark, and if monsieur
can manage to hide the border. . . .’

Beauvais frowned, then he laughed, and his laugh
was so youthful and so pleasant a thing that it went
very ill with eyes already somewhat marred by dis¬
sipation: ‘So you do not admire its fine border?’
he enquired. ‘You do not admire your own stock-in-
trad6 — those exquisite Louis Quinze chairs for
instance?’

Anatole Kahn shrugged deprecating shoulders:
‘I will einswer that question in just three words. Mon¬
sieur asks me if I admire those gilt chairs, and I
answer in just three words — I sell them!’

‘Then you ought to be shamed of yourself,’
grinned Beauvais.

259

The cloth purchased, Anatole Kahn said gently:
Tf monsieur will spare but a few more moments I
will show him something which I do not sell — a
thing of very great beauty, of genius. I am poor,
yet diis treasure I do not sell although it is now worth
a great deal of money.’ And he led the way into his
simple office, bare save for a roll-top American desk,
a stool, a shallow cupboard and a picture,

‘So,’ said Beauvais, ‘so it was you who bought
it!’

Kahn nodded: ‘Yes, at Fleuret’s, monsieur.’

‘For five sous because I was needing bread and
you, apparently were a good judge of art. And now
it is worth . . .’

‘To me nothing in money, monsieur, because I
will never sell it.’

Beauvais stared at the middle-aged over-dressed
tradesman: ‘Then you must be an imbecile,’ he
remarked, ‘Or an idealist, which is much the same
thing. Who can say how long my price will keep up.
To-day I am famous, to-morrow . . . who knows!
The mistral is not more erratic than the critics. Take
the money, my friend, take it while you can get it!’
advised Beauvais who since he had become a rich
man was assuming the air of a hardened cyruc. In
reality he was both flattered and pleased, for if those
beloved of the gods die young, those beloved of the
arts live on as children. Turning, he studied the
picture with interest: ‘Fine,’ he murmured, ‘ah, yes,
it is really fine! There is splendid technique in the
treatment of that sunshine; . , .’ Then he suddenly
seated himself on the stool: ‘I have reason to be grate¬
ful to this town, I suppose, though my natiure, thank
God, is very ungratefiil; . . . still. Saint Loup has
undoubtedly buttered my bread, and I find le pain
benit de la gaiete tastes less stale when it is spread
thickly with butter! Is it not strange that the more
'260

we have in this world the more we are always needing.
At one time I was glad to get clean in the sea, whereas
now I am missing my Paris bathroom. The hotel is
abominable — bad food, hard beds, and a waiter
who perpetually stinks of garlic, and yet only a very
short time ago I thought myself lucky to be staying
there at all ... I suppose that you do not know of
good rooms, or a decent flat somewhere down by
the port — a flat with a bathroom and clean sani¬
tation ?’

Kahn appeared to consider. Then: T fear not,
monsieur, our Saint Loup is still in the Middle Ages.’

‘And therein lies its charm,’ said Beauvais, sighing;
‘Why is it that nothing is ever quite perfect? \^^y can¬
not I have a medieval Saint Loup, a comfortable
bed and an agreeable bathroom?’

‘I see no reason at all,’ replied Kahn, ‘monsieur
has but to buUd himself a villa.’

Beauvais looked up from staring at his shoes and
his eyes were suddenly bright with interest: ‘En
voila une idee! I had never thought . . . But of
course that is what I am going to do! A mas in the
ancient Provencal style; but inside —ah, mon ami,
what modem comfort — three bathrooms at least!’
He was often like this, childishly elated over some
passing fancy. ‘And my garden shall end in the sea,’
he announced; ‘there shall also be a vineyard and an
orchard of peach trees.’

‘Some good ground might be had to the left of the
port, monsieur — it belongs to Hermitte, the baker,
but perhaps he could be induced to seU ... if mon¬
sieur bought that ground he would also buy vines.’

‘And peach trees?’

‘Alas, no, but they grow very fast . . . however
my friend may not wish to sell.’

‘I insist that he sells it to me!’ exclaimed Beauvais.

§3

A few days later the news spread like wild-fire.
‘Beauvais has purchased a large piece of land from
Hermitte — they say he will build a fine villa. In
any case he has paid a fine price, and what for? The
vineyard is utterly worthless. Hermitte is rubbing
his hands, I can tell you! It was Anatole Kahn who
arranged the deal; that man has a marvellous head
for business. Hermitte will pay him a commission,
and why not? That seems o:dy fair when one thinks
of the price he received, and the vineyard utterly
worthless. . .

Marie said to her husband: ‘If this Beauvais
comes here every summer it may very well bring
other people . . . perhaps that will help us with
money, J6us6 . . .’ But this she said rather timidly,
for Jousfe, these days, never spoke of such matters.

They were sitting over their midday meal; he
looked up from his plate: ‘There is nothing wrong
with my business, nothing whatever,’ he said loudly,
‘there have always been months when work has been
slack; in my trade one must take the good with the
bad — a good month, a bad month — they balance
each other. Are you and my children not well
clothed and fed that you meddle with things that do
not concern you? One would think that my children
went short of food!’ His face flushed and his eyes
looked suddenly angry.

She sighed. Le tout petit Loup did go short
of his bouillon, his milk and his wine-flavoured jellies
these days, because she could not pay the chemist,
and the chemist was a very unpleasant man — he
made pointed remarks when they kept him waiting.
And then there was Christophe who was growing so
fast that his broad brown chest was splitting his
jersey — always he seemed to be needing new clothes;

262

and then there was Jouse who wore out his socks so
incredibly fast; and then there was Anfos, Four
bodies to clothe and four mouths to feed, and that
cold weight of fear that lay on her heart. . . .

‘Is it that I must pay the chemist . . she fal¬
tered.

‘Has he not had enough? Let him rot!’ growled
Jouse. He pushed back his chair but he did not get
up and hurry away as had once been his custom.
Anfos went off to the workshop alone. ‘Your Beau¬
vais has given me an order,’ he told her. ‘I must put
a cheap fence round his precious land, and a board
to announce that the land is private! Maybe he will
ask me to build a dog-kennel, or if that is too costly
perhaps a hen-coop; yet they say that the land was
sold, thanks to Kahn, for double its value — there is
no lack of money.’

‘I also have heard that,’ Marie assented.

After this they fell silent, he scratching his chin
tlirough his beard with slow, meditative fingers;
she nodding to Christophe, then glancing at the clock
to remind him that he and Loup would be late;
‘It is time that you started for school,’ she whis¬
pered.

So Christophe and his brother stole quietly away,
for even the turbulent tout petit Loup did not dare
to disturb his father at that moment.

But when they had gone Marie faced her husband:
‘Jous^, I must have the money for the chemist, and a
few francs over to buy Christophe a jersey. G&as
will not wait, he is pressing us hard, and Loup can¬
not exist without asthma powder. As for Christophe
. . . you can see for yourself how it is . . . he grows
hourly. There is also Eusebe’s small bill; it is time
he was paid for that last pair of sandals; alAough that
is far less urgent than the chemist.’

Jouse got up slowly ; he moved slowly these days,

263

and she noticed with a pang the white hair on his
temples, the white hairs in his beard ... he would
soon be quite white ... an old man . . . but she
must have that money for the chemist. Had he got
it? Oh, that cold weight of fear on her heart; and
the question which she had not the courage to ask;
‘Jouse, is it Kahn who is making us so poor?’ If only
she dared . . . but she lacked the courage.

He was changing, her man, he was growing more
silent, he no longer shouted his jokes to their neigh¬
bours as he worked half in and half out of his shop.
Even Anfos felt the change in his master and would
come to her whimpering like a small child who was
scared and in need of consolation. Then the days,
growing always more frequent of late, when Joust’s
diligent hands would be idle, when he would wander
about the house, or rummage among his old bits
of carving, or pretend to repair the fence of the
yard that so obviously did not need repairing:
Tt is good that I have a free hour, Marioun, this
fence woiild have blown away in a mistral . . .’
and sometimes he would whistle when engaged on
such tasks, or hum to himself if he thought she was
listening. What was wrong? He was still an excellent
craftsman, a most honest, careful and capable worker,
yet just lately so few people needed his work when it
came to the matter of cabinet-making — oh, yes, they
would call on him for odd jobs, repairs to a door
or a rat-eaten skirting, but not for the things in which
he excelled. Was he wilfully blind to what was hap¬
pening? Was Jouse wftfully shutting his eyes to the
fact that his business was steadily declining? Yet
surely with so many unpaid bills . . . with so much
expense and so little money . . .

Anatole Kahn . . . the Galeries Kahn . . . just
ymder a year since the shop had been opened. No,
it could not be that ... the time was too short . . .

264

besides Jouse did not work for the whole of Saint
Loup; he never had worked for the whole of Saint
Loup; there had always been those who bought
ready-made rubbish, his own sister, for instance, who
had gone by train to Marseille if she needed a new
chair or table. And yet Kahn was prospering; why,
only that morning she, Marie, had seen a drawing¬
room suite being purchased from him by Madame
Hermitte, and the Hermittes had been Joust’s cus¬
tomers once — he had made nearly everything in
their house, including the cradle for their &st baby.
Madame Hermitte had appeared to be much occupied,
much engrossed the moment she had caught sight of
Marie. Anatole Kahn of the Galeries Kahn, so crafty
in business, so persuasively gentle: ‘Ah, Madame,
I hope that your dear little son suffers less from his
asthma in this fine weather . . .’ ‘Ah, Madame, I
have but one heartfelt regret and that is that your
husband appears to dislike me. Cannot you induce
him to be more kind ? I much need his goodwill,
I who come as a stranger . . .’ Anatole Kahn of the
Galeries Kahn, so biilhant a salesman with so handy
a shop, and everything ready, no need to wait, and
everything clearly marked with the prices, no need
to work out the cost of a chair or a table or a bed —
no need to bargain. Goundran had bought Elise a
brass bed, Goundran was buying from Kahn . . .
even Goxmdran.

She stared at her husband as he stood there before
her, very big, very strong still but growing much
thinner. At his age it was not a good sign to lose
flesh, his skin looked distressed somehow — it was
sagging. And his eyes, what was it they reminded her
of now that they were not any longer angry? Ah, she
had it! They were like the eyes of a dog . . . And
that sigh ... it was like . . . Her mind groped
about for something she had heard a long time ago

and then only partially, vaguely perceived. A pro¬
found, resigned sigh ... it was like Mir^io.

‘Jouse, let the chemist’s bill go —he must wait.
Let him wait, my beloved — do not worry . . .’

But J6us6 quietly shook his great head: ‘No, no,
leave it to me—I shall find the money.’

266

Chapter xxii

Autumn; the artists returning to Paris with their
x\comet, their models, their wives and their easels.
Saint Loup busy with its numerous activities but
gradually ridding itself of strangers. The Cure
labouring his wearisome sermons which tended to
lengthen as the weather grew cooler; Jan working
strenuously at his Latin to the satisfaction and pride
of his tutor; Madame Roustan painstakingly looking
for sins — her own but also those of her neighbours;
Mere Mdanie abstaining on Fridays from meat but
not always from her little violinist; Eusebe trying to
catch up with lost time by drinking less wine and
stitching more sandals; Goundran fishing, looking
after his prosperous affairs, making love to his wife
and playing with his baby. Marie more anxious
than ever about Loup who had recently developed
palpitations; the chemist part-paid and part-pacified;
the doctor unpaid, but so kindly a man that he was
fast becoming as poor as his patients; Jouse still
silent; Anfos still scared, and Christophe growing
more and more stupid at school, oppressed by a sense
of approaching disaster. Thus the autunm gradually
passed into winter.

The winter found Anatole Kahn well content, his
venture having more than justified his judgment The
profits were unexpectedly large — there seemed little

267

doubt, therefore, that the Galeries Kahn were
providing their clients with just what they wanted.
Sitting at his roll-top American desk their founder
wrote long, self-satisfied letters, enclosing elaborate
sheets of accounts to certain business friends living in
Paris. And since nothing succeeds in this world like
success, he was now regarded in Saint Loup with
admiration, nay more, with respect; his staunchest
adherents being Mere Mdandie and Madame
Roustan.

He said — and surely with some justification:
‘Did I not tell you that Beauvais would return to the
town that has undoubtedly made his fortune? Did I
not tell you that others would follow, and that through
them Saint Loup was bound to get known? They
came, ah, precisely, but what did they find? One
hotel, one miserable little hotel that does not even
possess a bathroom. Moreover they were crowded
together like sardines, there was not sufficient accom¬
modation. With Monsieur Grimaud I have nothing in
common; he is stupid and he runs his hotel very badly.
He says: “What has once been is still good enough,”
and I answer him: “Let the past bury the past, our
affair is solely concerned with the future.” Then he
shrugs his shoulders and looks imbecile; I am weary
of that fat old carp. Monsieur Grimaud. However,
there remains you, dear M^re Melanie, and you are
an intelligent and enterprising woman, so to you I
say: what about all those fine rooms? No less than
two floors of them over your cafe! To you I say put
in a bathroom at once, and a couple of comfortable
water-closets; there must also, of course, be electric
light; et voila, you become the Hotel de la Tarasque!
“H6tel et Cafe de la Tarasque” you become, and in
consequence greatly extend your connection.’

M^:re M^anie listened delighted yet fearful. But
would it not cost a vast sum of money? WTiat did her

268

dear little Alexandre think? Did he think they could
possibly manage to afford it? Of course it was bound
to pay well in the end, this had surely been made very
clear last summer; yes, and meanwhile that brigand
further on down the port who had stolen quite a few of
her fishermen from her — God pity their stomachs,
such foul liquor he sold—that brigand would receive
a slap in the face, and so would those surly, ungrateful
clients. Hotel de la Tarasque ... a bathroom . . .
Santouno! Yes, but could they, dared they venture
to afford it?

The little violinist with the hump on his back
thought they dared, but he left the decision to her,
she being such an excellent business woman: ‘Mais,
ma cherie, it is you who wiU have to decide — I am
only a child in matters of money.’ For the little
vioHnist knew his Mere Melanie; if he urged this
grand scheme and it happened to fail, she would very
probably turn round and beat him; so he said yet
again: ‘You will have to decide,’ and slipped quietly
off for a glass of brandy.

Kahn seemed confident of obtaining good terms
from the firm in Marseille that had worked for him —
M^e Melanie could pay them so much every quarter.
It would surely be very well worth their while in view
of the splendid future of the place; he would tell them
to call on M^re Melanie at once so that all might be
finished in time for next summer. Might he teU them
to call? ‘Ah, Madame, do not lose this great oppor¬
tunity, I entreat you. You have courage, Madame;
success follows the brave. May I tell them to call?’

Mere Melanie nodded.

So that night as Mere Melanie lay abed by the side
of her little hump-backed violinist, their propinquity
was quite without blame, since nothing was thought of
but current accoimts and how much they would
venture to take from her savings.

269

§2

Spurred by M^e Melanie’s enterprise, Madame
Roustan discovered a couple of rooms which could
well be spared for letting to boarders; what furnish¬
ings were needed she purchased from Kahn who
eagerly did his best to advise her. Next came
Hermitte, the baker, at one time a man too lazy to
care very much about money, but now so impressed
by his balance at the bank — resultant upon selling
his land to Beauvais — that he wanted to see that fat
balance increase^ and was fast bidding fair to become
a miser.

He said to his wife: ‘We have surely an attic that
we also can let next summer to an artist? It is foolish
the way we pamper our children, the four of them can
perfectly well sleep together during the season,
and that they shall do. I am not prepared to forgo a
fine profit.’

‘Both the attics need whitewash,’ said his wife
doubtfully, ‘especially the small one. Shall I send
for Jouse? There is also a leak to the left of the roof.’

‘I will do what is needed myself,’ snapped Hermitte.

Madame Simon went bustling round to see Marie,
and her husband it seemed, did wish for assistance;
‘Just a few small repairs to our top back room; the
woodwork is not very strong round the window,
and the door requires a new handle and lock; Jduse
wUl work for us cheaply, I know; after all, your Jouse
is Guillaume’s godfather. And to tell you the truth
we have not much to spend, what with Guillaume’s
college and now his wedding . . . Yes, in the spring
... a most charming girl, her father is a notary in
Marseille, but of course a wedding is always expensive.
Guillaume is coming to see you himself—ah, yes,
he has always loved Papa Jouse. However, what with
this thing and that, I said to my husband: “Why
270

should we not let our back room to some nice young
couple next season? The old sacks can go down to
the cellar,” I said, “and if Jouse just casts a look at the
rat-holes ... It seems a real pity to waste that room”.’

‘He shall go and see you to-morrow,’ promised
Marie.

Meanwhile Kahn enquired of Eusebe one morning:
‘Have you not got a cupboard that you can furnish?
You will have to indulge in a good spring-cleaning before
you put anyone into your cupboard, but after all,
that will do you no harm, and I think if you only
take my advice and prepare in time, you v^l make
some money. We are certain to have a great number of
artists again next summer, and whatever you require
the Galaxies Kahn can supply at small cost — I am
anxious to help you, that goes without saying.’

Eusebe’s black eye began to glow hotly: ‘WTiat
is this? A devil of an artist in my convent? My
slumbers disturbed by some young vermenoune who
comes crawling in drunk every night from the cafe?
His absurd contraptions aU over my shop; paints
squeezed on my floors, my walls and my ceilings? And
your vile, cheap rubbish polluting my home? By the
vomit of that bilious dragon la Tarasque, you have
made a very insolent mistake! You are speaking to one
who is called Eusebe, and he greatly despises you,
Anatole Kahn, for what you are doing to line your own
pockets. You are canaille, and you have the brain of
a bug; that is why you are hoping to make of this town
a place that is only fit for canaille. If I had my
way I would drown you at once, I would stuff you
head downwards into my cesspool.’

This was awkward indeed, for Kahn had arrived
intending to ask a particular favour. He wanted to
rent a small bit of groimd in order to put up a monster
board advertising the charms of the Galeries Kahn,
and as ill luck would have it, the ground was Eusebe’s

syi

— it happened to be on the Corniche Road and was
therefore extremely well placed for Kahn’s purpose.
But Anatole Kahn had long since decided that quarrels
were always a bad investment and that pride was the
rich man’s prerogative, so now he said, gulping down
his annoyance:

‘Do not anger yourself. I am not what you thinlf
me, an adventmer; no, I am quite the reverse — a
quiet and well-meaning business man. And to show
you that I bear not the slightest resentment I am
actually going to entreat your assistance. I desire
to rent a few yards of that land just beyond your
vineyards where the road joins the Corniche — I
want to put up a species of board. I am fully pre¬
pared to pay well,’ he finished.

Then Eusebe opened his mouth and bellowed so
that the very hides trembled. The lid of his white
eye puckered and twitched, while the ball of his black
eye blazed like a furnace as he swore certain mighty
Provengal oaths, so terrific that few save he dared
to use Aem.

‘Ah, well,’ sighed his visitor, turning to go, ‘I
deeply regret this misunderstanding. If you should
change your mind . . . bien, you know where I am.’
And lifting his hat he sauntered away.

‘B^ti malestrucho — ignorant beast, hell-toad, may
you fester!’ growled Eusebe.

§3

It took Kahn just two days to secure his ground
from a woman who spent her life boiling silkworms.
While not quite so well placed it was yet good enough,
being in a fairly commanding position. It took K^n
just two weeks to procure his board from Marseille;
a colossal, flamboyant erection advertising his wares
in the following words which were painted in decora¬
tive red and black letters:

272

MESDAMES!!! MESSIEURS!!!

VISITEZ l’aNCEENNE VILLE DE SAINT LOUP-SUR-MER.

ARRETEZ VOUS SURTOUT AUX GALERIES KAHN.

VENEZ VOIR NOS AMEUBLEMENTS DU DERNIER CHIC.

MOBIIJERS DE STYLE k PRIX MODERES.

OBjETs d’art, garnitures, TAPISSERIES, TENTURES.

JEUNES MARlis!!!

OFFREZ-VOUS UNE JOLIE DESCENTE-DE-LIT SIMILI-PERSE.

OCCASIONS FORMIDABLES!!!

The good folk of Saint Loup stood and gaped with
amazement. What a man! What a brain! Why, to
see such a board was to think they were living at
Monte Carlo! Well, perhaps they would be having a
Casino quite soon; why not? With Kahn there was
really no telling. The women exclaimed; the men
laughed and winked, tickled by that appeal to the
newly wedded, and everyone felt very proud of their
town. Only look at the splendid advertisement—it
began on the grotmd and reached up to heaven!
Even the Benedit’s oldest friends were too much
excited to notice their absence, while as for Eusebe’s
. . . oh, well, he had no friends and, if one might
believe him, did not want any.

But one evening Eusebe walked forth alone to
visit that detestable board by moonlight; all alone
by the light of a scandalized moon he walked, intent
on relieving his feelings. And just how he relieved
them need not be told — it can safely be left to the
imagination.

s

273

Chapter xxiii

§i

D uring December Kahn was absent fora fortnight,
his shop being left in charge of the youth who
had offered balloons on the day of the opening. Where
had he gone to now, the great man? Here, ^ere, and
everywhere, that Anatole Kahn! And he knew how
to keep his own counsel when he chose; however,
later on they might hear all about it.

When he returned Kahn was closeted with Hermitte
for quite a long time, and they shouting and scolding
just as though they were not now the dearest of friends
since Kahn had helped Hermitte to sell his land —
incidentally, for less than half its value:

‘Preposterous, disgusting, you would actually rob
me! How can I pay the high price Beauvais paid
you? Am I wearing silk shirts? Am I keeping a
whore? Am I thinking of building a white marble
palace?’ And Kahn chewed the end of his fat cigar,
then spat, so immense was his indignation. ‘Who found
you a buyer?’ he went on still more loudly, ‘Who
helped you to empty that simpleton’s pockets? Who
told him that if he bought that land he bought vines?
Sacre Nom, and your vineyard for years has been
sterile! Who told Mm that he was getting a bargain;
who lied — yes, I ask you, who lied out of fidendsMp?
I, Anatole Kahn. And what is the result? You prove
grossly ungrateful and endeavour to rob me!’
Hermitte swallowed and blinked and made swift
274

calculations on his blotting-paper with a violet lead
pencil. Never had he felt more excited in his life,
and yet never more wretched, because undecided.
Ought he to let this new land go for less than the last
lot? It actually adjoined Beauvais’ boundary, there¬
fore why should he have to sell it for less, when the
world might contain other crazy artists? But those
swift calculations were going to his head, for at times
strong drink is less raging titan riches; only think of
the proportions his balance would reach could he
but bring himself to accept his friend’s offer! Think of
seeing the total in neat black and white whenever he
cared to open his bank-book! And supposing he
refused and then could not sell after all — supposing
no one else wished to buy? What a strain it was this
amassing of wealth: it was really enough to drive one
demented. Poor Hermitte alternately ruffled his
hair, bit his nails, and sucked at his violet lead pencil;
avaricious yet doubtful he mentally writhed on the
horns of this distressing dilemma. In the end they
came to a compromise, Kahn agreeing to pay him
five hundred francs more than the price which he had
originally offered; whereupon Hermitte puffed out
his cheeis and looked sly, considering himself a Ivery
shrewd fellow.

And now people were talking from morning until
night, Kahn’s name being constantly heard at the
cafes. Ho, ho, but he must be exceedingly rich; a
grand shop aU done up at his own expense, and then
land upon which he was going to build villas! And
what if he did not attend Holy Mziss, he sent generous
subscriptions to Monsieur le Cure —this they knew
for a fact. A good fellow he was, and anxious to
further everyone’s interest. Saint Raphael indeed!
very proud of itself, very proud of its train de luxe
from Paris. P6u, wait a bit — just wait a few years
till the bathing was in full swing at Saint I^up;

275

Saint Loup had a much finer beach than Saint
Raphael. Yes, and wait until Anatole 'Kahn had a
word with the mayor about proper electric lighting.
The mayor was a stubborn and slow-witted fool;
what they needed was a mayor ’with an eye to progress,
what they needed was a mayor like Anatole Kahn who
would put good money into everyone’s pocket. Why,
the local authorities were nothing but brigands,
neglecting the town and purloining the taxes. Imagine
such a thing! filthy cesspools that stank and disgorged
themselves over the vegetable gardens. Santo Flour,
if the visitors came to suspect they would surely
start thinking about typhoid fever. Santo Flour, if
Saint Raphael should come to suspect . . . Out¬
rageous the way they were all being robbed! They
had reason to be grateful to Anatole Kahn who had
sho'wn them how they and their town were neglected.

Thus they talked; scowling ominously at the mayor
in the very streets of Saint Loup, should they meet
him; refraining from lifting their hats when he passed,
which had long been their courteous and friendly
custom; making loud-voiced remarks about cesspools
that stank, whenever he happened to come within
hearing, since progressive ideals not infrequently
oust that charming though less profitable virtue,
politeness. But the mayor of Saint Loup was so old,
so near-sighted, so deaf, and moreover so benevolent
a person, that he went on his way with serenity,
quite unconscious that anyone had been scowling.

§2

New Year’s Day brought with it magnificent
weather; the sky was cloudless, the air like crystal.
People almost forgot their grievances as they stood to
gossip at -windows and doors, feeling pleased with
themselves and with most of their neighbours. And
Anatole Kahn was feeling pleased with himself as he

276

hiirried along the street swinging his cane — he was
going to pay a visit to Jousd.

A pity that Jous^; so greatly disliked him, but this
state of affairs must no longer continue, for he needed
the fellow’s help now in his schemes, and moreover
Jous^ would doubtless consent to work cheaply
in view of his financial position. Then again, if other
good workmen existed anywhere in the district
Jous^ could find them; his influence too should go a
long way, for his name was still very greatly respected.
With Jouse as foreman the building would run
smoothly, no thieving, no exorbitant demands, no
quarrels; and all done with the minimum of expense,
since the men would be living hard-by their work
which would save the cost of board or train journeys.
Of course there remained the question of time; the
best of these southerners worked very slowly and one
villa at least must be ready by June — on that point
he would have to be firm and emphatic.

Arrived at the B^nedit’s house he knocked briskly:
‘Bonjour, ch^e Madame. Can I speak with your
husband?’

Marie said: ‘My husband is resting. Monsieur. It is
fete; will to-morrow not do as well?’ and her gentle
brown eyes were hostile and watchful.

‘Alas, no; my business is pressing,’ he told her.

She hesitated, hating the man with all that her
gentleness could muster of hatred; yes, but also fearing
this soft-spoken stranger who was bringing her
husband’s business to ruin. And seeing her hesitation
he stepped in and passed her quickly:

‘Ah, pardon . . .’he murmured.

Jous^ was sitting alone in the parlour with drooped
head and closed eyes: he appeared to be sleeping.
Kahn coughed and Jouse sat up with a jerk, saw him,
and lumbered onto his feet: ‘Monsieur, what is the
meaning of this intrusion?’

277

‘Business, Monsieur.’ And Kahn glanced round
the room noting the signs of disintegration; the worn,
sagging couch, the much-mended blind, the pane
of broken glass in the window. Then he let his gaze
rest on Jouse’s frayed shirt: ‘Is business unwelcome,
Monsieur?’ he asked gently.

‘That depends with whom it is transacted,’ frowned
Jduse.

Without more ado Kahn seated himself: ‘B^^dit,’
he began, now dropping the monsieur, ‘Ben^dit, let
us talk as man to man. From the first I seem to have
incurred your dislike — I who have always desired
your friendship. But alas, it is only too natural
perhaps, for in this world because we must struggle
to live we are apt in that struggle to injure each other.
I may well have injured your trade, BMedit ... I
have injured your trade, let us face the truth.’

‘That is not the truth,’ Jouse told him sharply.

Kahn held up his hand: ‘Have patience, my fidend;
I do beg that you sit down and listen with patience.’

‘Gramaci, and if I prefer to stand?’

‘It must be as you wish, but I beg you to listen.
Ben^dit, I fully intend to succeed, the Galaies Kahn
are as yet in their childhood; they will grow, they
will spread out on every side, they will add depart¬
ment after department. A department for this, a
department for that — perfumery, lingerie, ladles’
dresses; hats, stockings, boots and shoes, garments
for men; there shall also be a juvenile department.
You have been to the Gaieties Bleues at Marseille?’
J6us6 nodded, ‘Very well,’ his visitor continued, ‘you
have visited the Gaines Kahn of the future. This
town will grow also, its boundaries will extend, we
may take it that they are extending already for Beau¬
vais’ villa will be built on the outskirts. Other villas
will follow to the west of the port in the w^ake of his
— my new premises with them. Ah, yes, Ben^t,
278

the growth of Saint Loup has become my dearest,
my most cherished ambition. And this brings me
to what I have come here to say — that colony of
villas is about to be started.’

‘I care nothing for your colony of villas,’ remarked
Jouse.

Kahn gazed at him out of his soft, ox-like eyes:
‘And yet I would wish you to benefit by it. I am here
to oflfer you work, B^nedit; I am here to suggest that
you build those ■^las.’ A^d then before Jouse had
time to reply: ‘But you understand they must be
built quite cheaply; I have only a certain amount
to spend and my money must bring me in a fair profit.
For instance, our timber need not cost a fortune;
I imagine there is . . . well . . . timber and timber.
Then our walls, why make them obtrusively thick as
the villas will only be used in the summer? And the
paint, why be foolishly extravagant with paint? Why
put on four coats where two are sufficient? Provided
some bright colour covers the deal, those who
purchase will never be any the wiser — at least not
just at first — after that, eh bien, after that it ceases to
be our business. But of course we must naturally
bear in mind that the villas should have an attractive
appearance; they should look, eh bien, I will be
perfectly frank, the villas should look better built
than they are ... it is always my rule to speak
firankly in business. But then you know well how it
is with building; a little touch here, a little touch
there, a small b^cony say, or a curve to a window and
immediately you have obtained your effect, the
pleasing effect that catches a client. And now about
the question of time; one villa at least must be ready
next season. I would like it to be ready at latest
by June and sold,’ he srruled quietly, ‘sold by Ai^st.
A quick sale is very essential, my fidend, and therefore
this matter of time is important. But being a man of

279

intelligence and foresight you may ask who is going
to purchase my villas; you may wish to know what I
propose to do in order to bring them to the notice of
the public. My idea is to use Beauvais’ land as a
bait; I shall publish the fact that the celebrated artist
has acquired a large piece of ground near the port and
will very shortly be building a mansion. Our first
little nest shall cling close to his fence, which I seem to
remember you yourself put up for him. Ah, yes, he
should prove very useful indeed, a celebrity is always
a valuable asset. Well, those are my plans; have I
made them quite clear?’

‘Very clear indeed you have made them,’ said
Jduse.

Kahn nodded: ‘That is good. Now about your
profit: I propose to advance you a reasonable sum
on account, you to find reliable workmen and yourself
to work under my architect who will doubtless suggest
a small monthly payment. I shall tell him that you
are well acquainted with these parts and that therefore
I wish you to act as foreman. The precise amount
which you will eventually receive must depend on the
cost of materials and labour. But this I do promise:
for every two sous that you save, one shall find its
way into your pocket, and surely I cannot be fairer
than that, or do more to show how much I wish to
work with you.’

Kahn stopped speaking and the room grew heavy
with silence. Jousd stared out of the broken window.
He was wavering; this offer meant regular work,
months of regular work for him and Chiistophe —
Christophe was nearly thirteen years old, and so would
be leaving school in the summer. With the prospect
of more than one villa to be built, the boy could very
soon begin earning — and then there was always le
tout petit Loup who continued to cost a great deal
of money. Yes, despite his antagonism to Kahn,
280

Jous^, because of his children, was wavering. But
suddenly into his tired blue eyes leapt the dogged,
determined look of the peasant — the look that even
to-day fronts the world with a stubborn pride in passing
traditions; the look that has in it something primi¬
tive and fine and courageous, yet also something
pathetic. There he stood fast ageing but stiU
undaunted, still clinging to his faith in himself and
in those who for years had given him honourable
employment, still unable or unwilling to admit
defeat, still unable or unwilling to envisage the future.
And that pride handed down to him by his forebears,
that will to uphold the integrity of labour, that deep
love for those things which the hands have made and
which thus have become a part of the craftsman;
aye, and the memory of brave old dwellings once
seen in the narrow by-ways of Lisieux, dwellings
that had stood for the dignity of home, for the
honesty and skill of their master-builder, must now
all combine to delude the perceptions of this man
whose soul was not of his time, but rather of some
simpler and more stalwart era. Standing there
staring out of his broken window, clad in clothes that
were daily becoming more shabby, he yet fancied
himself indestructible; as firm and enduring he felt
as the arch bequeathed to the town of Saint Loup
by the Romans.

He swung round and faced the apostle of progress:
Tt is that you would make of me a robber;’ he thun¬
dered, ‘it is that you would have me build lies, all
lies, in order that you may sell them as houses. Green
wood I must use because it is cheap and will therefore
procure you a larger profit. And the walls need not
be obtrusively thick, nor the paint, it would seem,
because those who buy, being fools, will not be any
the wiser. And sell quickly, you say; but yes, you
are right, it will surely be better to sell very quickly,

281

for such kennels as you have asked me to build will
be blown to the ground by the first honest mistral.
Well, I answer you, no! Build your kennels yourself,
do you hear? And now get out of my house!’

Kahn said softly: ‘Yet I would not have war
between us. . .

‘It has always been war between us,’ replied
Jduse.

282

Chapter xxiv

Si

K ahn’s first villa was not begun until April.

Jouse having refused to help with the project,
Kahn had naturally turned to the firm in Marseille
who, however, had proved to be much too expensive.
In vain did he point to his first princely order and
the fact that they had not been kept waiting for their
money; in vain did he point to M^re Melanie who
had given them work on his recommendation; the
firm in Marseille remained adamant when it came to
their price for building his villas.

Irritating it was to hear M^re Melanie braggmg
loudly about her new water-closets; declaring with
something very like pride that the chill which had
recently sent her to bed had been the result of her
spacious new bathroom: ‘I could not resist; so charm¬
ing it looked. “You are foolish, ma cherie,” Aloc-
andre warned me, “a bath is always a perilous thing,
those who take one should afterwards sleep in flannel.”
Mais oui, he was right, the result was most grave;
in future I shall leave my bathroom to clients!’

For the Hotel de la Tarasque was now ready and
waiting; neat bedrooms, electric light, sanitation,
while Kahn’s villas by which he had set such store
were as yet barely struggling into existence. More¬
over the thrifty M6re Melanie had not purchased as
much as Kahn had expected, having found a great
number of odds and ends stored carefully away in one

283

of her attics, so that on the whole the Gaieties Kahn
had not benefited to any extent by the rise of the Hotel
et Cafe de la Tarasque; however, Kahn cloaked his
irritation in smiles and proceeded to scout up and
down the coast for a firm whose demands would
meet his resources. In the end he discovered a humble
contractor who lived in the neighbourhood of Men¬
ton, a Frenchman in the eyes of the law, it was true,
but in every other respect an Italian, as were also the
talkative, good-looking youths who had been sent
along from the frontier as workmen. Having deftly
erected a few wooden shacks for themselves they
appeared to lose interest in building, spending most
of their time making eyes at the girls, drinking quarts
of red wine, and brewing black coffee; and although
the sun by now was quite hot, they shivered at the
first intimation of a mistral: ‘Tempo di cani, signore!’
they would say, rubbing their hands as though it
were freezing. Then speaking in their hideous bastard
French, they would go on to grumble that the wind
dried the ground and thus rendered it harder to dig
foundations. One morning, however, it obligingly
rained, but it seemed that this was not propitious
either, for when Kahn went along to urge on the
work he found them all crouching under umbrellas
while one of them strummed on a mandoline in order
to cheer his depressed companions.

Bitter although Kahn felt towards Jous^ who had
wilfully hindered his impatient ambitions, he none
the less spoke of him with regret, carefully curbing
his rising anger —as one who had been very griev¬
ously wronged spoke Kahn, and his voice was patient
and gentle: ‘It is not that he wishes to harm us, the
good Jous^, but rather that his outlook is retro¬
gressive. He possesses, alas, the obstructionist mind —
the mind that is always an enemy to progress. It is
sad, for what would become of this town of Saint
284

Loup if there were many more like him? Then again,
he will not keep abreast of the times, and thus he
condemns our new methods of building. He forgets
that we do not build castles these days, that is why he
so much disapproves of my villas. But, bon Dieu, we
must give people what they require, and what they
require are villas not castles. Yet I sympathize with
him for I also love strength, and beauty, and timber
the size of an oak tree. I also love spending a very
great deal, but I do not love asking exorbitant prices
and thus driving the tourists away from a town whose
future is solely dependent upon them. Later on when
Saint Loup has become better known, I shall aim
at building commodious mansions with terraces
leading right down to the beach. But we must not
run before we can walk; patience, I say; that shall be
for the future. And meanwhile let me build a few
small, summer homes and sell them to |)eople who
come here from Paris; to people who will go back
and talk of this place, for, believe me, their tongues
will make all our fortunes. I explained this to Jouse
but he grew very angry, so angry that he did not
pause to consider; he behaved as though his hatred
of me had made him blind and deaf to all reason.
I will not dwell on his final insiilt — as you know he
ordered me out of his house, and why? Because I
wished to employ him! His goodwill wovdd^ have
greatly assisted us all . . . ah, well, there it is, we
must get on without him. But my deepest regret
is the fact that my workmen are not, as I wished, the
men of this district; the money which I am about to
spend must now find its way into strangeis’ pockets.
I am all for spending our money at home; why, I
ask you, should we benefit men from Menton?’ In
this manner spoke the soft-voiced Anatole Kahn to
all who would listen, and they were many.

So now those who had recently spent on repairs

285

because they believed in Saint Loup’s rich future —
Madame Roustan, Madame Simon the corn-chand¬
ler’s wife, Hermitte the baker and a number of others
— began to feel very deeply aggrieved at the attitude
being adopted by J6us6, began to fear that in hinder¬
ing Kahn he might also be hindering their personal
interests. While as for Mere Melanie the progressive
whose improvements were being paid for out of savings’
Mere Melanie cut Jouse dead in the street, and so did
her little hump-backed violinist.

‘Ah, mais non,’ she protested, ‘that Jouse is crazy,
he would have us all back in the Middle Ages. He
is fast becoming as bad as our mayor; ‘ very well
from now on I refuse to know him. I consider that
he has played Kahn a mean trick — but doubtless it
arises from a lack of education.’

Madame Roustan took her grievance off to her
brother: ‘Here have I spent much money doing up
those two bedrooms, and now you have seen fit to
quarrel with Kahn upon whose enterprise we are all
depending. A few pretty villas will improve the
whole town; what can have possessed you to refuse
to build them?’

Jouse shrugged and yawned: ‘That is surely my
business; and in any case, Germaine, why are you
whining? Those who cannot find villas will look for
rooms —I have probably helped you to let your
apartments.’

Madame Rousta,n, however, remained obdurate:
It is vital that Saint Loup should spread,’ she per¬
sisted, there will always be those who prefer to take
rooms, but such people do little or nothing for trade,
trade is only supported by those who own houses.
You know very well that I depend on my shop and
that hfe is always hard for a widow; as it is I can
scarcely make two ends meet . . .’ She nagged on
until Jouse’s temper gave way:

286

‘Oh, for God’s sake let me alone!’ he exploded.

But even Goundran must forget to be loyal, this
in spite of that time just prior to his marriage when
the B^nedits had stood forth as his friends in the
teeth of much hostile public opinion. Even Goundran
went about shaking his head and declaring that
Jous^ had been very foolish. For Goundran, these
days, had grown dotingly fond of his eighteen months
old daughter Amrano, and Amano loved good things
to eat and toys, which were promptly procured for
her by her father. Kahn’s villas, once lived in, would
provide a fresh market for such delicacies as turbot
and langoustes which could always be sold at excel¬
lent prices. There would also be cod to sell for la
brandade — Goimdran had noticed that visitors ate
the rich Provengal dishes with remarkable gusto.
So now he must go about shaking his head and pro¬
testing that Jous^ had been very foolish. Yet in justice
to Goundran it should be admitted that his deep
disapproval was not purely selfish. He considered
that Jous^ in refusing Kahn’s work had inflicted a very
real wrong upon Christophe. He had wilfully de¬
prived the boy of a fidend who might well have proved
useful to him in the future.

Goimdran said to his cronies: ‘I am grieved for
my godson. Jan has got the Cur^ and that Madame
de Berac, but Christophe has no one to help him along,
and his father’s business is practically ruined. I
do not say that I respect Jouse less, not at all; I think
everyone should respect Jouse for an honest, coura¬
geous and Christian man, but I think he is wrong upon
this occasion. Pecaire! why such a to-do about the
W2ills and the planks and the paint of a few little
viUas? Only God Himself can erect perfect walls,
and those He reserves for our mansions in heaven!
In this world we must all live as best we may and be
thankful for a roof to Cover our heads. Moreover a

287

married man cannot indulge his whims, he has
ceased to be his own master. Do you think that I
would throw good money away. Not I, with Elise
and our pretty Aurano!’

Once a lover and lord of the sea he had been, then
the lover and lord of a mortal woman; but now he was
the slave of Aurano’s blue eyes which were bluer far
than his own or her mother’s, of Aurano’s minute but
imperious hands that grabbed at his hair and his
gaily striped jersey, of Aurano’s delightful chuckling
laugh that tumbled over itself with enjoyment. There
she was, an actual bit of his body, yet a creature whose
beauty he thought so amazing that whenever he
touched her soft white limbs he could scarcely believe
that his crude seed had made her, and must worship
this transfiguration of himself, for when all was said
and done Goundran was human.

But meanwhile people noted what Goundran was
saying, for had he not been a close friend of J6use?
And so what with his speeches, and Mfere Melanie’s
ire which had led to the cutting of Jouse in public,
and Madame Roustan’s unceasing wails, and Madame
Simon’s pained criticisms, and Hermitte’s terror
lest Jouse should join with the mayor in a plot to rob
him of money, it was not surprising that those who had
begun by feeling aggrieved were soon feeling resentful.

§2

This disaffection of their neighbours and friends
had begxm to weigh heavily upon Marie. It wzis not
that people sziid much to her face, but rather the
things that she knew they were thinking, and she
dreaded her morning shopping, these days — dreaded
the carefully guarded words which veiled the rising
resentment against Jouse. For now among those
who had known him for years, one fiiend only

288

remained unswervingly loyal, one friend only, it
seemed, had nothing but praise for Jouse’s firm stand
against Anatole Kahn, and that friend was none other
than Eusebe. Lustful, intemperate, blind of an eye,
and openly proclaiming himself a pagan; never
setting his dirty foot inside the church, or giving
a centime to Monsieur le Cure; a disaster, a veritable
thorn in the flesh with his filthy old bedding hung
out of the window so that all who passed by might
see for themselves how complete was his unconcerned
degradation, Eusibe now frequently wandered across
to the Benedit’s house after work in the evenings, and
Jduse seemed anxious to make him feel welcome.

They would just sit there talking scarcely at all,
yet conscious of the bond that had sprung up between
them, the bond that binds those who belong to the
past; for each of them knew that he hated the present,
and yet each of them knew that the past was dead,
and moreover that time can have no resurrection;
yes, and each of them knew in his own separate way a
nameless and at moments very deep sadness. And
so they would drink, for the coming of Anatole Kahn,
a vulgar and over-dressed stranger whom both could
despise for the thing that he was, had yet made them
grow conscious of their isolation. Nay more, this
aggressive middle-aged man who was so persuasive
in all his aggressions, this man with the soft voice and
ox-like eyes who when insulted merely lifted his hat
in polite and undisturbed salutation, this man who
when they stood barring his path would arrive at his
goal from another direction; this man who himself
was no longer young, who possessed neither physical
charm nor vigour, was making them feel unaccovmt-
ably old, and what was still harder to tolerate, helpless.

So Eusebe must tilt back his chair and laugh
hoarsely: ‘Ho, hoi, there is always good liquor, and
good liquor makes the blood nm ^ter than girls!

T 989

If you ask me: “Eus^be, which shall it be, a wench
for your bed or wine for your stomach?” I will answer:
Give me the comfort of wine, and let me lie down by
a fruitfiil vineyard — it pays better and costs less than
a fruitful woman!’

Marie would order her sons off to bed, and Anfos
must go at the same time as Loup whose sleep was
disturbed if he followed later. And presently she also
would seek her room, leaving Jouse before a fresh
bottle of wine, his eyes clouded, his chin sunk onto his
breast — he who had used to berate Eusebe for an
impudent, dirty, drunken old sot who disgraced not
only himself but his neighbours!

Poor Marie would open her Prayer-Book at random
and would read many prayers to the blessM Virgin, or
perhaps to the Sacred Heart of our Lord, or perhaps
to Saint Joseph, Jouse’s patron; for her peasant mind
would feel dull with grief, so that she must seek among
printed words for what she herself lacked of inspiration.
But alone in his attic her elder son would be staring
miserably into the darkness, for such nights would
bring with them neither visions nor prayer, but only
a new and devastating doubt — the doubt of a merci¬
ful God’s existence.

Christophe would be thinking: ‘My father had
courage, yet his courage it is that has turned against
him. Can courage sometimes be too heavy for us?
Because of his courage my father is breaking.’ And
this would seem monstrously unjust to the boy, as he
lay staring miserably into the darkness.

One morning he must leave the house very early
in order to seek out Monsieur le Cure, for he felt an
intolerable emptiness, as one who had suffered some
deep bereavement; ‘Is it a part of myself that has
gone, or is it . . .’ But he could not complete this
ffiought; when he tried to do so the thought would
dude hrtn.

290

He discovered the priest alone in the church: ‘Mon
pere, I wish to confess,’ he said gravely. So the Cure
slipped on his cotta and stole, and together they
entered the dark confessional.

‘Mon pere, something dreadful has happened to
my faith. . . .’

‘Go on, my child,’ said the Cure, calmly.

‘I cannot say my prayers. . . .’

‘And why cannot you pray?’

‘Because I no longer believe in God.’

There ensued a short pause, then the Cure
murmured: ‘And yet I think God still believes in you,
and perhaps that is even more important.’ He could
be, at times, quite a wise confessor.

‘But supposing that we only imagine a God . . .’
faltered Christophe at the end of his painful confession.
‘Supposing that He has no existence at all, that we
thi^ He is there just because we need Him?’

‘And who put that great need in our hearts, my
child? Surely that need is God,’ said the Cure. Then
he told the boy to remain and hear Mass in order
that he might draw near to his Maker.

So Christophe received the little white Host with
that, curious feeling of apprehension which was all
that remained of the terrible fear that had gripped him
during his First Communion. Very reverently he
received the Host fix>m the Cure’s delicate, scholarly
fingeis.

But the sense of doubt and bereavement persisted,
so that Christophe grew more and more melancholy,
eating little, and walking with drooping head; while
at moments he would find himself almost tearful
because the mountains looked tmusually blue, or the
olive trees unusually silver, or the stars unusu^ly
bright and friendly; for if there was no God to tha n k
for such things, there could be neither meaning nor
hope in their beauty. Thus April passed gloomily

291

on into May, and the cloud did not lift: until one May
morning when Christophe was once again plunged
into sin, this time through losing control of his
temper.

There were boys at the school who took pleasure in
baiting, and although they liked Christophe well
enough on the whole, they must now ape their parents’
resentment of Jouse by repeating remarks they had
overheard, and which they embellished in the repeat¬
ing; all of which Christophe treated with the large
disdain he accorded to the buzzing of flies and
mosquitoes. But the day came when someone went a
step too far; it was Andre, the eldest son of the chemist,
a pimply, bullying lout of a boy who started to gibe
during recreation.

Said Andre, speaking unusually loudly: ‘Your
father owes us a very large bill, and yet he is too lazy
to work and earn money, without doubt because he
now drinks so much wine! Eh bien, I say that your
father is a thief. When people do not pay what they
owe, it is thieving!’

The blood sang in Christophe’s flaming ears, his
scalp pricked, his muscles tightened for action, and
he felt enormously, joyfully strong — strong with
rage, a most uplifting sensation: Tieu de baudrcio!
Panto! Gusas! Malavalisco k vous!’ he shouted.
‘Liar, you who call my father a thief! Take that!’
and he suddenly shot out his fist, striking his enemy
full on the mouth, ‘And now that!’ and he struck
him full on the nose, so that Andre gave a loud yell of
pain, lost his footing and promptly fell over backwards.
And never did a boy produce quite so much gore as
this pubescent, full-blooded son of the chemist.

What a hubbub. Loup frisked about like a lap-dog:
‘Kick him! Kick him hard in the stomach!’ he kept
yapping, while Jan fell upon a couple of other
youngsters who had recently been making themselves
292

offensive. Then everyone started to fight at once, for
no reason except that the thing was infectious.

Out strode Monsieur Roland, very red in the face:
‘Silence! Have you gone quite demented?’ he thun¬
dered. Then he caught sight of Andre who continued
to bleed, while Christophe stood glaring down at
him in triumph: ‘Bon Dieui’ exclaimed the master,
‘Someone get me a sponge and a bucket of water.
Stop squealing, Andre.’

§3

The end of it all was more trouble for Marie.
Christophe had got off comparatively lightly, for
although Monsieur Roland was often severe, he was
also a just man and very observant. Having lectured
the culprit for half an hour he dismissed the whole
affair with a warning. But the chemist was bent upon
making a scandal: his Andrd, he said, had been bru¬
tally battered; struck in the face he had been several
times, and this without the least provocation. Jouse
should pay and pay handsomely for the boy’s dam¬
aged clothes, the shock, the ointment, the lint, the
bandages, and the doctor; otherwise . . . bien,
one always had one’s redress, there was always the
law, one could start a proc^. Jouse shrugged his
shoulders and capitulated ; the chemist was very
essential to Loup who, indeed, could scarcely have
lived without him. But Marie secretly heaved a deep
sigh, for the money would have to be taken from
savings.

That evening Jous^ said to his son: ‘Consider the
expense you have put us to, Christophe. No, but
really I cannot understand this affair. Why did you
strike that Andre in the face? Will you not explain?
It was very unlike you.’

Christophe shook his cropped head and looked

293

stubborn. He was sony that his father should be
put to expense at a time when money was so hard to
come by ; but explain the cause of it all? Ah, 9a
non! There were things that one did not say to one’s
father.

Tf you tell him the reason,’ he threatened later,
having followed le tout petit Loup into his bedroom,
‘if you tell him the reason, I shall be very angry!
Jan has promised not even to tell Aunt Germaine.
And now you will promise to tell no one at all.
AUons, vite, I am waiting . . .’ And Loup actually
promised.

So once again Christophe must seek out the Cur^
but tl^ time his confession was wonderfully cheerful,
all things considered: ‘Mon pere, I have sinned. I
have given way to ungovernable temper. I called
A^(ke Genas several bad names, and I put a male¬
diction upon him because he said that my father was
a thief, and I hit him twice as hard as I could. Ah,
mon pere, he lay there and bled like a pig! And per¬
haps I ought to tell you, mon p^re, that I felt very
happy while I was hitting. And . . . mon p^re . . .
I once more believe in God. . . .’

‘God moves in mysterious ways,’ thought the Cure.

894

Chapter xxv

At a time of great strain and unhappiness a com-
XjLP^ratively insignificant event may discover the
chink in our armour; an event connected, as likely as
not, with an equally insignificant person, and thus
it was Madame Simon’s son, Guillaume, who became
all unwittingly instrumental in causing the first
sign of faltering in Marie.

A good fellow, a kind-hearted fellow this Guillaume,
with a tender and perhaps over-scrupulous conscience,
so that from very anxiety not to injure or wound he
firequently blundered. Then again, at the moment he
was tactless with love of Clotilde, the notary’s
scatter-brained daughter. Clotilde had sharp, im¬
pertinent eyes, and lips that were harshly defined
by lip-stick. Her hair was crimped, her handker-
cfiiefs scented, and her nails too shiny, too red and
too pointed. All of which Guillaume found intensely
alluring; and if his parents felt doubtful at moments
they were careful to keep those doubts to themselves
— the daughter of a Marseille notary was a match
of considerable social importance.

The wedding had been postponed for two months
owing to the trouble in finding an apartment, since
Qotilde considered that parents-in-law were only
endurable at a distance; nothing would induce her to
share their roof, and this she had made very clear to
her fiance.

T will not live over a shop,’ she had stated, ‘especi-

295

ally a shop that harboxirs large rats that will come and
nibble my toes in bed! Moreover, there would be
your father and mother.’

Ah, yes, Clotilde was going to be difficult to
please and the town of Saint Loup had little to offer —
no cinemas, no dances, no milliners’ shops, no zoo¬
logical gardens, no brightly lit boulevards along
which to stroll of an evening with friends—indeed
it had little to offer but Guillaume. And knowing
this, Guillaume must tread warily, so that when he
had ventured; ‘You remember my godfather whom
you saw at la Tarasque that afternoon? I would wish
him to make our marriage-bed for us, and also, per¬
haps, one or two other things . . .’ he had quickly
succumbed to Clotilde’s protests, eagerly agreeing
that what they required was a modern bedstead with
blue cretonne curtains, a drawing-room suite of gilt
and cerise, and a dining-room suite of carved ebony —
or at least of something that looked very like it.

Clotilde had wanted their furniture to be bought
in Marseille, which perhaps was quite natural; but
then had arisen the question of means; the notary
was willing to pay for their apartment but not, it
appeared, for what they put in it, so Guillaume had
gone to see Anatole Kahn to arrange for a certain
amount of credit. Kahn had promptly agreed to
quarterly payments; he was only too pleased to help
the young couple, they might choose what they Hked,
he was offiy too pleased ... of course there would be
just a little percentage. So one evening towards the
beginning of June, Clotilde arrived to stay for a
night wiffi Guillaume’s respectful but nervous parents
—this in order to visit the Gaieties Kahn the neict
morning with an equally nervous GuiUaume.

It was surely the devil’s own luck that Marie should
have chanced to be passing at the time of their visit,
that the door of the shop should have chanced to be

296

open with Kahn and his clients standing just inside
it. And what could have possessed so seemly a woman
to pretend to be gazing at Kahn’s front window,
so that she might overhear what was said, and
know the precise extent of the order? What possessed
the soft-voiced Anatole Kahn to raise that soft voice
as he ran through the items, loudly checking off first
this purchase, then that, can undoubtedly only have
been the devil. For hearing him Marie went red and
then white as she clutched at her shabby old shopping
basket, while the lump that rose in her throat was so
large that just for a moment she could not swallow.
Many others now patronized Kahn, as she knew, yet
somehow, to-day, this young man’s desertion must
loom larger than all that had gone before —it is
frequently less the event than the moment. Turning
quickly she hurried along the quay, but not before
Guillaume had looked up and seen her, and not before
Guillaume had flushed, to the eyes: T will not be a
minute;’ he whispered to Clotilde, ‘you wait here.’
And off he dashed in pursuit, the land-hearted, tact¬
less, blundering creature.

Had Guillaume been just a little less kindly . . .
but no, he must speak, must try to explain and thus
only succeed in wounding more deeply. Having
come up with Marie he stammered and blushed like
a schoolboy caught out in some grave misdemeanour:
‘Listen ... I want you to know how it is — the time
was so short before our wedding; the delay in getting
a suitable apartment . . . and then Clotilde . . .
she is yormg and she loves pretty things; ah, no, no,
not that, it was really the time, otherwise I would
surely have wished papa Jouse . . . but the time was
so short. You do understand. . . .?’

Marie answered: ‘I will tell Jouse what you have
said.’ And still clutching her shopping basket she
left him.

297

In and out of the shops she went calmly enough,
even managing to smile as she gave her small orders:
‘But yes, perfect weather, not yet grown too hot , . .
I think I must have some potatoes this morning.’
‘Loup seenas better, I thank you. When will Chris-
tophe leave school? Next month. Yes, please, half
a kilo of sugar.’

But once back in her home she could no longer
smile. Perhaps it was the sight of her husband
sitting idle with his hands hanging limply between
his knees, perhaps it was those scared, anxious eyes
of Anfos, or perhaps it was the gasping of le tout
petit Loup who, knowing quite well that he ought not
to run, had yet felt the urge of youth in his bones and
had raced home from school far ahead of Ghristophe.
Be this as it may, she must now start to tell them
about Guillaume Simon’s open desertion; and then
she must cover her face and weep with a kind of
childish, disconsolate weeping:

‘He called you papa Jouse,’ she wept; ‘it is. . . that
he . . . called you . . . papa Jouse . . .’

Jous^ jerked clumsily out of his chair: ‘Stop, stop,
Marioun; I cannot support it!’ and his voice sounded
unfamiliar and strained: ‘Stop crying, Marioun
. . . stop crying, I tell you! Will you stop it, Marie!’
and he stamped his foot, ‘I have told you that I can¬
not support it.’

But she could not stop crying. Her tears once
released flowed forth like a stream that had long
been ice-bound, dripping down through her fingers
onto her lap as she woefully rocked herself backwards
and forwards: ‘And he called you papa Jouse . . .’
she repeated over and over and over again with a
desperate, unreasoning monotony: ‘ai, ai, and he
called you papa Jous^.’

298

§2

Nobody came to Saint Loup that summer apart
from the usual handful of artists. Beauvais had
apparently forgotten his land —he was said to be
wandering about in Spain, and his satellites were
presumably with him. Mere Melanie managed to
let two bedrooms and Madame Roustan had one
humble boarder, but the Simon’s spare room was
unoccupied and so was the attic of Hermitte the
baker.

Kahn’s first villa was still very far from completion
and could not be finished before the autumn, yet
he went about smiling his confident smile; ‘Remember
that Rome was not built in a day. Believe me, my
friends, I have no misgivings.’

And they did believe him, the more so, perhaps,
because he himself was continuing to spend, having
recently turned a commodious shed into something
not very unlike Jouse’s workshop. The Galeries Kahn
could now undertake repairs thanks to a joiner whom
Kahn had imported, and whom people were finding
both skilful and sprack, so that doubtless this venture,
also, would prosper.

Eus^be, however, was content with the fact that
despite the fine weatlier the town remained empty;
‘It would seem,’ he remarked with a satisfied grin,
‘that the fat golden calves prefer other pastures.
Possibly our watchful dragon, la Tarasque, objected
to so much insolent browsing; a fine beast she remains,
a most worthy beast, in spite of that Marthe and her
holy water! In any case we are now left in peace;
I told you how it would be, my good Jous^.’ Then
as Jous^ neither looked up nor replied; ‘Eh bien, I
sh^ take myself oflT to the cafe until the black crow
on your shoulder has flown. . . .’ And Jdusd did
not attempt to detain him, for these days he must

299

brood for hours on his wrongs, filled with a slow,
fundamental anger.

He had not believed it, the big stupid peasant,
he had not believed that his honest brown hands
would be scarcely able to earn him a living, that his
honest brown oak and his sweet-smelling pine would
lie idle against the walls of his workshop, that a life
spent in ceaseless labour and thrift could result in so
galling a poverty, might even result in stark destitution.
No, not until Marie had wept had he believed — her
tears had washed away his illusions. So now there
had come that slow, fundamental anger, and at times
his resentful eyes would grow bloodshot, while his
face would be stained by an ominous flush that grew
deeper with every deep swallow of wine — the strong,
comforting wine from the vineyards of Provence.

‘Marioun, fetch more wine. ... I am tired to¬
night; but yes, at my age a man needs support. Did
you hear me, Marie? I said fetch more wine!’ And
sick at heart his wife must obey him.

He would sit with his chin resting on his left hand,
the hair of his beard spraying out through his fingers.
His right haind would be slowly fingering the glass
which every few moments he raised to his lips, and
the liquor would fan his anger to flame, augmenting
his bitter sense of injustice:

‘Marioun, he will starve us, that Anatole Kahn;
he will starve us craftily, little by little. And they
help him to do it, our friends, hlarioun — may God
send the lot of them down to hell I—they buy the man’s
filth because it is cheaper. Houi, the good truthful
oak, the fine oak, there it lies despised, spat upon,
Marioun — a great pile of it lying despised near my
work-bench! He has come here to snatch the very
bread from our mouths, to ruin the old and honour*-
able trade that I .learnt from my father in this very
house, that he learnt in this very house from his

300

father; yes, and always have we been honest workmen.
But now honesty counts for nothing, it seems, the
honest can starve so that Kahn may prosper. “Bene-
dit,” that swine says to me in the street, "Benedit, I
hope that you find yourself well. How is your wtfe,
Benedit?” he says, “I hope that your wife is well,
and your children. Remember, my friend, that I
bear you no grudge. . . Besti! I could batter the
mouth off his face! I could batter until there was
nothing left, no mouth and no treacherous soft brown
eyes . . . when I look at those treacherous soft brown
eyes I feel as though I were treading in cow-dung!’
And the flush would spread up until it reached
Jouse’s brow, the veins standing out like cords on his
temples.

Marie would do what she could to calm him, as
she strove to recapture her own faltering courage:
‘Listen, my Jouse, we are not starving yet, nor do I
think God will permit us to starve.’

But her husband would seem not to grasp her
words: ‘Starving! Yes, yes, we shall soon be starving!’

Le tout petit Loup would begin to wheeze, for
fear never failed to react on his asthma, and his
father’s heavy, congested face with the beard stained
by wine that had spilled from the glass, would throw
him into a kind of panic: ‘Maman —oh, maman
. . . ’ the boy would gasp, unnerved by that feztr
and the pain in his chest. Then Marie would gather
him into her arms, while her sorrowful eyes turned
slowly to Christophe.

And sitting there speechless yet acutely attentive
as though being forced to rivet his mind, nay his very
soul on this ruin and suffering, Christophe would find
himself seeking for words which although familiar
would always elude him —words that he seemed to
divine had a power to heal not only the flesh but the
spirit. Tom by pity, by his terrible comprehension

of the misery that was engulfing his father, of the
dumb plea for help in his mother’s eyes, of the nervous
tremors shaking his brother, the boy would suffer a
kind of triple anguish that at moments became almost
physical, and so poignant that it appeared past
endurance. Calling up every ounce of his strength
and courage, he would try not to feel appalled by
this thing which so greatly exceeded his understanding;
and as he sat on there wHte-faced and rigid, he would
fancy that he heard the words he was seeing being
spoken by someone a long way away, so that he could
not hear them quite clearly. Then would come the
strange thought: ‘Distance does not exist, it is all
here zind now, it has always been here; there is
neither time, separation nor distance. It is zill here
and now, it is all in me . . . they are me, I am them,
and we are ... we are. . . .’ But the thought
would waver, grow dim and go out like a light that
a sudden wind had extinguished.

A ^eat feeling of helplessness would possess him
bringing with it, quite often, an angry resentment.
He would set his young lips in a stern, bitter line,
refusing to meet his mother’s eyes, refusing to see his
father’s flushed face or the miserably labouring chest
of his brother; for just as he had tried to shun pain
in the past, even so he still struggled at times to shun it.
And occasionally it almost appeared as though he
had managed to stifle his pity, and when this happened
he went to his bed without saying ‘good-night,’ hard of
heart and triumphant; without saying his prayers he
went to his bed, blowing the candle out very quickly
and hiding himself underneath the quilt, lest he see
his mother’s eyes in the darkness.

§3

At this time there was seldom a tranquil evening,
for now his parents firequently quarrelled. They
302

quarrelled over things that in prosperous days would
have seemed to them both the merest trifles: the lamp
would gutter, die down and go out because Marie
had felt too tired to refill it; or the kitchen door
would refuse to close because Jouse had felt too
disheartened to mend it, or the sink would prove to
be stopped up with grease because Anfos had sailed a
boat in the sink instead of using his rod to cleanse it.
And such happenings would get themselves all out
of focus, appearing as veritable disasters, so that
Jouse would turn and reproach his wife and Marie
would turn and reproach her husband. For their
love must submit to their nerves these days, to the
tyrannous sway of their ailing flesh, and the quarrels
mi^ht grow very angry and loud to the great pertur¬
bation and wonder of Anfos.

On one such occasion he covered his ears and was
off before any of them could catch him; and so wild
did he look as he rushed from the room, that Jouse
stopped shouting to drink more wine — a fresh tum¬
bler of wine because he felt anxious: ‘Pecaire, now
where has that imbecile gone? He ought to be in his
bed;’ he scowled, ‘Christophe, go after him, go at once
and bring him back here — he deserves a good hiding!’

Christophe got up and fetched a light, and sighing
he went in search of the half-wit.

He found Anfos crouching down in the workshop
among the odds and ends of old carving; utterly limp
and dejected he looked: ‘He resembles a suffering
dog,’ thought Christophe. Then he suddenly felt his
eyes stinging with tears, for seeing him there the crea¬
ture crept forward and rubbed a gaunt cheek against
his hand, making inarticulate, animal sounds of love
and distress — it was like Mirdo.

Christophe said: ‘Tell me what you are doing here,
Anfos, you seem so unhappy—come back to the kitchen.
We were worried about you, that is why I have come.

303

Moreover it is late, it is time for bed.’ And he fondled
the man’s thick, dusty hair; ‘Come back, it is time
for bed,’ he persuaded.

But at this Anfos gazed at him almost sternly, and
when he spoke his voice sounded accusing: ‘The
words!’ he said loudly, ‘The words! the words!
Master, where are the words? Why will you not
speak them?’

Christophe shivered and pushed him roughly away:
‘What words? I tell you they do not exist!’ And
panic-stricken he fled in his turn, leaving Anfos
alone in the darkening workshop.

But dreactful as were those discordant evenings,
there were times when the days seemed almost more
dreadful, when Christophe, now no longer at school,
must try to_ invent fictitious tasks in a fruitless effort
to soothe his father. For Jouse would have the boy
at his side although one pair of hands had become
one too many, and observing his son’s pretence of
work he would often speak with great bitterness, as
though venting his anger and pain upon him: ‘Ho,
ho, you are very busy, my son, we prosper, my Christo¬
phe is very busy. He appears to be whittling a little
stick, or perhaps he is making a little whistle! Ho,
Anfos, why are you wasting your time? Come and
help, this task is too heavy for Christophe.’

One morning he looked up from his bench with a
grin: ‘My son, here is something well worth your
attention. Observe how I smooth the sides of this hole,
observe the graceful curve of this hole, and its smooth¬
ness — not a notch in the deal, not a splinter. Fine
work for a cabinet-maker, ah, yes, this is fine work
indeed — such great skill is needed! Do I hear you
say that your father makes beds? Do you say that
your fether makes oak chairs and tables and cupboards
Md cheste? Is that what you say? because if so you
Ue, you lie, my son; your father makes deal seats for

stinking privies! And this afternoon you shall carry
this jewel of cabinet-making to the farmer, Gaston;
you shall walk through the town with it under your
arm so that all may observe how the Benedits prosper.
“Tel” they will exclaim, “There goes Jouse’s son
with a handsome new seat for old Gaston’s privy.”
It is well to exhibit our prosperity to those who now
buy at the Galeries Kahn, in case they should fancy
we miss their custom!’ Christophe stared at him with
miserable eyes, and seeing this Jouse spoke all the
louder: ‘Ah, yes, there is also a fence to mend; the
Simons require a new slat in their fence, it would
seem that the dogs can enter their garden. Madame
Simon requests that you mend her fence, but on the
instant, you inust please understand, on the instant.
The charge wiU be one franc fifty!’ And this sort of
thing would go on pretty often, for Jouse was not his
own man these days; the wine would have soured in
him during the night, so that his head throbbed aind
ached the next morning.

With infinite patience Christophe would try to do
what he could to comfort his father: ‘After all,’ he
might urge, ‘we may outlast Kahn. Kahn may
suddenly find himself tired of Saint Loup — one can
see that the town is quite empty this summer. And
then do not forget that the Cure has ordered six
rush-bottom chairs for Our Lady’s Chapel; I have
noticed such chairs at the Galaxies Kahn, yet the
Cure prefers to come here to us, and something tells
me that this is good luck — I have the idea that our
luck is changing.’ These and many similar things
he would say, while secretly feeling that they avail^
nothing.

And meanwhile Anfos would just sit and carve —
always carving he was these days in his corner.
Strange pictures now grew up under his tools, having
in them a kind of disorderly beauty. Figures half-

u 305

human and wholly demented: beasts, birds, wide
circles and swift, flashing lines, wings and claws, a
goat’s head, the head of a fish, inextricably tangled
with human bodies. Or perhaps he would seek to
humanize flowers, giving some flower the torso of a
woman — of a woman he could only have seen with
Ms mind, could only have visualized by instinct.
And men he would carve with the heads of trees:
‘Look,’ he would babble, ‘they have kind green heads;
they tViink kind green thoughts; they listen to birds
all day and all night, and the birds are wise, very
wise. . . .’ And then he might start to wMstle.
Sometimes he would fasMon angular landscapes
having mountains that never rose on tMs planet,
having seas that never washed earthly shores, having
sMps that never sailed earthly waters. ^ And when he
did this his brown eyes would shine with a light that
seemed to proceed from the spirit, so that Ms face
became quite transformed by the rapture he felt at
Ms own imaginings:

‘Look, look! litde master, tMs is where I go when
I fly, when I fly away, little master. Farther and
farther to no one knows where but Anfos. . . .Beu
Dieu, and up ... up ... up 1’ And then he would
make as though to fly, flapping his arms and Ms great
red hands, ‘My feet are too heavy. . . .’he would
mutter.

Mad. Ghristophe knew that Anfos was mad these
days, that their trouble had tipped the scales, turning
the half-wit into a madman. Jousfe would curse and
Marie would fret, observing that he grew always more
strange, but CMistophe could probably have restrained
Mm. Yet he lacked the heart to forbid those wild
carvings, divining the longing from wMch they
sprang — the longing of one whose hofje lay beyond,
whose fulfilment must be in another existence. Anfos
was mad with the pain of the world, with the pain of

306

his own maimed, distorted life, and was striving to
fashion a world of dreams into which he might escape
from despair—he was striving to conjure beauty from
madness.

§4

There were days when the boy could endure it no
longer, and then he himself would have to escape from
the man who was mad with the pain of the world, and
from that other man with the bloodshot eyes and the
beard now habitually matted and stained. He would
think: T too must get away for awhile. If only for an
hour I must get to the sea; I must let the sea wash
me clean of it all.’ Then without a word he would
lay down his tools and go off to some lonely spot on
the shore, there to give himself body and soul to the
water.

With a kind of rapture Christophe would swim
through the vast, impersonal depths of blueness;
a mote, an atom, a thing so minute by comparison that
he scarcely existed. And this feeling of being intensely
alive yet obliterated, would give him great joy, a
sense of great peace, completion and joy such as many
an one has claimed for Nirvana. He no longer wished
for the sea as a friend, was no longer conscious,
indeed, of its friendship, but rather he rejoiced to
find it aloof, and completely divorced from human
emotion. To be no more himself because one with
the sea, that would seem to him entirely fulfilling.

Time would pass and still he woxild swim on and
on, a competent, skilful and fearless swimmer. And
as he swam thus his whole being would grasp at ele¬
mental and primitive things — ihe sea, the wind, the
incalculable sky —at such things he would grasp
with aU his might, plunging his head in and out of
the water, flinging his body from side to side in the

307

ecstasy of his sudden revolt. Soulless he would feel and
completely disburdened, like a creature reborn into
liberation. And the sun would begin to swing to the
west, then to drop very slowly towards the mountains,
then more quickly until on a sudden it had sunk, a
red disc behind the black peaks of the Maures, leaving
the sky and the sea to flame, so that the wings of the
homing birds would be touched with a transient,
unearthly glory. Looking up the boy would observe
the stars, faint as yet because of the after-glow, and
turning he would start to swim back to the shore, but
regretfully and without resignation,

§5

In such moods Christophe often sought out Eusebe,
and together they would walk up to the vineyards.
To reach them they must pass by Mirfeio’s grave, now
hidden beneath a tangle of shrubs — those aromatic
Proven 9 al shrubs whose perfume still faintly disturbed
the Cure. No stone marked the place where Mireio lay
but beside it there rose up a round, grey boulder, so
that Christophe could easily find the spot, only
sometimes these days he would not want to find it
and would turn his face resolutely aside — there was
pain in the memory of MirHo.

Eusebe would watch the boy with interest: ‘C^pi!’
he would murmur which meant very little; he ne-
quently murmured ‘C^spi’ to his vines when he peered
at them, taking stock of their progress, and now he
would peer at the boy at his side, attentively but
never unkindly.

Christophe was allowing his cropped hair to grow,
and released from the clippers it sprang up quite
briskly. Its colour had darkened since his earliest
youth; Eusebe observed that it looked almost auburn.
He also observed that Christophe’s pale eyes in his
308

sun-bronzed face were queerly attractive, that his
features, though rough-hewn, held a look of power,
that his brow was low and wide and convincing, but
above all his figure pleased Eusebe, so strong it was,
and of such excellent proportions. Eusebe considered
himself a fine judge, for had he not been born in the
town of Arles, and had Arles not been bom in the
lap of the pagan? And had he not worshipped pagan
art at the Musee Lapidaire many a time? He had,
and so now he would think to himself:

‘The boy is magnificent, what a torse! It is really
remarkable how much he has changed for the better;
and already he looks quite mature. Ai! las, that he
cannot become a Greek athlete.’

One day he remarked: ‘We are aU very ugly, we
have grown very ugly and our bodies are mean —
even here in Provence which at one time was pagan.
But you, Christophe, remind me of those who live
on in marble, of those I have seen thus at Arles.
Your features are too rough and that is a pity, but
presently your body will be like theirs, a thing of
great strength and of perfect balance. Now look at
me, Christophe, a poor dwarf with one eye, and then
think yourself lucky to possess such a carcase, Houi,
but the women will be round you like bees!’ Christophe
smiled rather vaguely, knowing nothing of women.

What he liked was to wander among the vines, for
their greenness gave him an exquisite pleasure, and
he loved the contented and earthy smell which seemed
to haunt all Eusebe’s vineyards. Eusebe would_ stoop
down and pinch the grapes, but gently as one pinches
the ear of a baby, and then he would talk to them
playfully as Christophe had heard him talk to his
sandals. Or perhaps he would want the boy to admire:

‘Come and look at these bunches, are they not
beauties? Only see how they flush, only see how they
swell. Bigre! already they are heavy with juice. This

309

year I shall certainly make a nectar that the gods
will not despise at their table!’

So, stooping, Christophe would look in his turn,
and when he must suddenly think of his father he would
thrust the thought firmly out of his mind, praising
the grapes to please Eus^be. Then slipping his hand
through the old man’s arm: ‘And now tell me again
all about your vineyards.’

Nothing loth Eusebe would start to explain the
reasons why his vines invariably prospered: first came
Bacchus, that lusty god of the grape, but then came
Eusebe a very good second. Winking and grinning
and waving his hand he would tell of his craft, his care
and his knowledge; of his trrdy amazing patience and
skill — none so skilful, said he, as the old Eusfebe.
Oh, yes, there were others who thought they grew
grapes — pou, their grapes were shrivelled and worth¬
less. If you wished to obtain any juice from such
grapes you must first blow them out to bursting with
spittle! While as for their wine — Santo bdli Mari-
niero! to drink it was to have an attack of the colic!
No, no, Eusebe alone could grow grapes; if he chose,
his vineyards could become world-famous, but he
did not choose, samipabieune, not he! What, degrade
his beautiful vineyards with placards fifteen feet high?
Why, the grapes would turn in their skins with sheer
horror at such a proceeding. Why, Bacchus would
literally belch with rage. C4spi, such doings must be
left to upstarts like Kahn and his ilk —Ah, the
venomous toads, degrading and fouling the face of
the country!

On and on he would gabble while Christophe
listened amused, feeling thankful for the distraction,
while he drew the fresh upland air into his lungs
and sniffed the strong, happy smell of the earth,
determined that he would be happy also. And some¬
times he must laugh and remind Eusebe of that day
310

when he had lured them all from their parents —
Christophe and Jan and le tout petit Loup — giving
them bunches of sweet grapes to eat and rough bread,
and milk to drink at the farmhouse, telling them
stories about the old gods, and about the nymphs who
so dearly loved honey; must remind him of Loup’s
remark that same evening when, sitting beside his
mother at supper, he had loudly declared that his
name had been changed by the nymphs, so that now
he was not Loup but Bacchus. Eusebe would chuckle
and slap his thigh — that incident never failed to
delight him; Ho, hoi, what an imp le tout petit
Loup! As clever he was as the black lamb of Satan!
And from this they might fall to talking of things that
belonged to Christophe’s earliest childhood, for the
boy liked to dwell on those happier days since they
seemed to provide an escape from the present. But
one event he would never cuscuss, to the great annoy¬
ance of old Eusebe who having been generous longed
to be praised —he would never discuss his first pair
of sandals.

Chapter xxvi

§i

P eople began to shake their heads, declaring that
Jous^ was going to pieces. What a fool he had
been to refuse Kahn’s work, what a fool not to keep
abreast of the times — all the same they were feeling
a little uneasy. It was shocking, said they, that a
Benedit should have let himself go down hill so quickly;
degraded he looked with his ill-kept beard, his frayed,
dirty shirt, and his shuffling gait — a changed man,
and frequently not quite sober. His poor wife; it
was terribly sad for her yet even more sad, perhaps,
for the children. Take Christophe, a tall strong boy
like that should be put to some steady, lucrative work,
instead of which he just hung about idle. Ah, mais
non, his father was greatly to blame with his hatred
of Kahn and of all forms of progress.

And indeed Christophe longed to find lucrative
work, any work that would help them by bringing
in money; but Jouse had harshly refused lus consent,
becoming enraged at the very suggestion; ‘That, no!’
he had stormed, ‘You will stand % your trade; you
will stand by your trade if you starve in the process.
It shall never be said that he has driven you out!
It shall never be said that a son of mine has been
forced to accept some mean, dirty job by a base-bom
impostor like Anatole Kahn!’ For immense was
becoming this man’s unreason.

And seeing the flush that spread over his face as
the anger swept up through his large, ailing body,
Christophe had suddenly held his peace, warned by
a swift premonition of danger.

312

There were others, however, who felt it their duty
to interfere in this grim situation, and among them
the Cure who was worried lest Jan should suffer
through fretting about his cousin; he also had left
school and was now engaged upon grave and extreme¬
ly important studies.

Jan had suddenly announced: ‘I would give up the
priesthood if Madame de Berac would be kind to
Christophe and look after his future instead of mine
. . . but yes, I would even give up the priesthood if
Christophe would consent to enter the Church. Mon
pere, do you think we could make him do so? Do you
think we could make him become more submissive
and less foolish about imagining things that he says
have got left out of the Bible?’

The Cure had looked at him very sternly: ‘You
have spoken as the young will speak in emotion. No,
Jan, God has chosen you for His priest, and we cannot
decide such matters for God who may well have plans
of His own for Christophe.’ But the next day he went
to the Benedit’s house, having made up his mind to
speak to Jouse.

‘It appears to me,’ began Monsieur le Cure, ‘it
appears to me that it would be better if you let
Cl^tophe look for employment elsewhere. He is
really surprisingly strong for his age, so perhaps he
could get a job at the station, or else on the line be¬
tween here and Saint Raphael; I see they are making
extensive repairs. . . .’

Jouse answered: ‘My son is a carpenter, he is
neither a luggage-porter nor a navvy.’

The Cure curbed his rising irritation: ‘Yet I know
that your son is anxious to earn money in order to do
what he can to help. Christophe, is that not so?’
And he turned to the boy.

‘Mais oui, I much wish to earn,’ murmured
Christophe.

313

‘Christophe’s place is here with his father,’ said
Jouse; ‘My son is a Benedit, Monsieur le Cure, and a
Benedit does not turn tail and run from his duty
because he fears for his stomach. Many years we have
worked for this town of Saint Loup — my father, his
father and his father’s father. Timber brought us
success and through it we will fail if we must, but
we will not give up our tradition. My son is bein^
trained to follow our trade, and so long as there is
even a fence to mend I intend that he shall continue
his training. WTiile I am alive he remains at his bench.
That is my decision. Monsieur le Cure.’

But now the Cure in his turn was stubborn, thanks
to his anxiety over his pupil, and he started to argue
quite vigorously, pointing out the gross and unparal¬
leled folly of preventing Christophe from tal^g a
job when, as everyone knew, things had come to a pass
that was forcing Jouse to fall back on his savings:
‘Benedit,’ he concluded, ‘you are terribly wrong.
God helps those who help themselves, remember, and
although you are suffering for what you have felt to
be right, lor upholding an honest tradition, you are
also suffering for pride’s sake, my son.’

‘Then I will continue to suffer,’ frowned Jous^.

The Cure got up, at last convinced that his "argu¬
ments were utterly fruitless, and taking his hat he
walked out of the house: ‘In another moment,’ he
said to himself as he went, ‘I must surely have lost
my temper.’

Goxmdran came: ‘I am worried about my godson.
Why not let me make a sailor of Christophe? Listen,
Jouse, I am going to buy a new boat so shall soon be
needing a sensible lad. Only say the word and the
matter is settled — may I have him?’ But Jous^ shook
his grey head. ■ ‘He is dulling his brain with drink,’
thought Goundran.

Madame Roustan arrived; she knew of employment.

314

Monsieur Bled at the Bazaar was wanting a boy to
run errands, carry parcels and deliver newspapers.
Not all boys, she explained, were so lucky as Jan, not
all boys could be patronized by a countess! Should she
tell Monsieur Bled that Christophe would call?

Tron de Dieune! she might tell Monsieur Bled what
she pleased; but meanwhile she could take herself off
to the devU or her Comtesse de Berac—Jouse did
not care which. Had she heard him? She could take
herself off to the devil!

Simon pere turned up looking worried and awk¬
ward. He wished to find someone to unload sacks of
grain, and to do little odd jobs about the place . . .
Christophe now ... he was strong, and a good-
tempered boy. . . . Surely Christophe would be just
the very fellow. The pay was not famous but still,
it might help. WTiat about it . . . considered as a
beginning?

What about it? Why nothing, nothing at aU. And
Jous^ proceeded to spit on the floor, then to rub the
sole of his shoe on the spittle.

Even Hermitte the baker sent his spouse to suggest
that Christophe might be taught the intricacies of
baking. It seemed that her brother, a pastry-cook of
Toulon, was very anxious to And an apprentice.
Christophe could live with her brother and his wife
who were prosperous, quiet, and kindly people. This
would be an advantage, for Jouse would Imow that
the boy was properly housed and fed; it would also
mean fibat he was looked after.

But Jous^ laughed loudly: ‘Ah, yes, no doubt, and
get my son’s services thrown in for nothing! No, I
thank you, Christophe has his own home; he has also
a trade which is not that of baking.’

Madame Hermitte quite naturally felt aggrieved,
and in this fi:^me of mind she returned to her husband.

Hermitte was furious when he was told of the way

315

in which Jous^ had spurned his wife’s offer: ‘Zou,’
he remarked, ‘very well then, so be it. As for me, I
am done with the whole ugly business. When a man
has no money wherewith to buy food and yet plenty of
money to drink himself silly —yes, and when in
addition he insults my wife, he cannot expect my
consideration. It is time that he paid for the bread
I provide; I am poor and so greatly in need of his
riches!’

And now everywhere Hermitte went he complained
to those who were nursing a similar grievance; and they
listened eagerly, nodding and shrugging as who should
say: ‘We have done what we could, we are free from
all blame, the fault lies with Jous^.’ And since hmnan
nature is at times only human, they were greatly
relieved to find an excuse for ridding themselves of
that uneasy feeling. Even the Cure and Goundran
shrugged; the one going back to his books and his
pupil, the other to those boats that were so spick and
span, and that brought in the fishes that brought in
the money which, in its turn, was spent on Elise and
Aurano.

‘What will you?’ said Goundran, fondling his wife,
‘I cannot support more than one family, and since
Jous^ sees fit to ignore my suggestion. . . .’ Then
he lifted Aurano high into the air: ‘Ah, bon!’ he
shouted, ‘We go up . . . we go down . . . with the
breeze in our sails, with the breeze in our hearts.
Up . . . down. Up . . . down. O! lou brave ven-
toulet!’

§2

Although the Cure urged Jan to study almost
ruthlessly because of a love which was fast bidding
fair to become an obsession; although he talked much
of the Master’s work, of those plentiful harvests
316

awaiting the reaper, and although he endeavoured
to reassure Jan and himself by insisting that Chris-
tophe’s life could safely be left in the hands of his Maker,
Jan was not reassured for he also loved, and love
sometimes demands a great deal of reassuring. Thus
it was that once more he must lie awake, very deeply
distressed because of his cousin; and wise though he
certainly was for his years — bookwise in such things
as theology and latin, as dogma and ritual, as legend
and fact pertaining to saints and to reverend persons
— he yet thought at these times with the mind of a
child who, himself loving food, would dread to go
hungry.

That Christophe now often went hungry he knew,
the best being saved for his ailing brother, and so
Jan would lie on his bed and scheme how to get
cake and fruit while having no money; for the matter
of that how to get bread and cheese wherewith to
fill Christophe’s rapacious stomach. Ghristophe’s
appetite was whale-like these days, so remorselessly
was his young body growing — he would even go
foraging up in the hills, on the look out for sweet and
edible berries. Why, when Madame Roustan asked
him to supper, this because her son had stamped and
insisted, she declared that the larder was cleared for
a week, that her housekeeping purse was completely
flattened.

‘Santo Flour,’ she would grumble, ‘he eats like a
pig. No, I caimot but feel that Christophe is greedy!’

But apparently Jan had become greedy ^so, for
whenever he visited Hermitte the baker he woxild
gaze with big, longing eyes at the wares: ‘U . . . m,
that looks good, very good . . .’ he would murmur.
And if Hermitte was serving this was met by a frown,
but if Hermitte’s fat wife was behind the counter Jan
might easily go off with two or three cakes, or a couple
of rolls shaped like glossy brown crescents. And so it

317

would be when he passed the greengrocer: ‘Good
morning, Madame;’ he would say politely, ‘surely
your peaches are extra fine? But enormous; I have
never seen anything finer!’ For he knew that this
woman possessed a kind heart, and moreover he
fancied that she rather liked him.

And so she did like him. Her own son having died
she had grown indulgent towards all budding saplings;
and then Jan’s handsome face was hard to resist as he
eagerly scanned her fresh, sun-warmed fruits:

‘T^, you shall taste them, mon gars;’ she would
smile, remembering the son who had dearly loved
peaches.

But wherever he went it was now much the same;
he appeared to think of nothing but eating: ‘C^pi, I
am hungry;’ he would say, getting home, ‘Maman,
give me some cheese and a fat chunk of bread. I
cannot endure to wait until dinner!’

‘You are worse than Christophe!’ his mother would
snap.

Then Jan would shock her by being disgusting: he
would laugh and protest that a ver solitaire was a
very exacting and active worm, requiring to be
constantly nourished and pampered: ‘Otherwise it
will bite!’ he might say with a grin, ‘So please hurry
before it becomes really angry.’

And while she prepared the impromptu meal he
would quietly slip away to his bedroom, there to put
the peaches under the bed together with the gifts from
fat Madame Hermitte. And these would be joined a
little later by cheese and thick bread from his breeches’
pocket. As crafty as any conjurer he grew at deceiving
his grumbling and stingy mother: ‘Look, it has gone!’
he would suddenly exclaim, ‘All gone! Pecaire, my
poor worm was famished.’

It might be the next day that he sought out Chris¬
tophe, or perhaps it might be the very same evening:

318

‘Let us hide ourselves,’ he would mutter darkly, as
though they were once more playing at pirates, ‘let us
hide and examine my ill-gotten spoils — I btilge with
them.’ So off they would go to the attic.

Then Jan would produce the food he had hoarded,
somewhat flattened and bruised but none the less
welcome; and seeing the peaches Christophe would
pause, knowing well that they ought to be saved for his
brother. But in the end conscience would have to give
place to the ravening claims of that growing body;
skins and all, he would quickly devour the lot, scarcely
waiting to spit out the rough, stringy stones — this to
Jan’s never failing distress and amazement.

‘Ah, Christophe, ai! las, ai! las . . .’he might say,
no longer able to feel light-hearted.

But Christophe would heave a deep sigh of content
as he turned his attention to bread and cheese, or to
Hermitte’s sweet cakes and delectable croissants.

Jan was becoming much gentler these days, for now
he in Iiis turn was stirred by compassion, so that when
the feasting had come to an end he would often listen
with patience and tact to much that he privately
thought must be fancy. Christophe would tell of those
glorious swims, and of how when he gave himself up
to the water he would feci like a creature without a
soul, like a part of the sea and completely happy.
And then he would tell of those walks in the vineyards,
of the untroubled vines with their lovely greenness, of
the eaith that knew neither sorrow nor pain, of the
smell of the earth that was full of contentment. Yes,
but then he would tell of the madness of Anfos, of his
father’s bitter, destructive anger, and of all that was
devastating their home, turning peace to turmoil,
achievement to ruin. And one evening he tried very
hard to tell of those words which possessed the power
of healing.

‘You see, they are in me, Jan,’ he said gravely;

319

‘yet often I seem to hear someone speak them who is
very far off. But then comes the thought that there is
no time and no distance; it is all here and now . . .
it is all only ONE, but I do not know what. . .
His pale eyes sought Jan’s face, ‘It is all only one,
just one,’ he repeated.

Jan said anxiously; ‘It may be that you are hungry.
I have read that those who need food will imagine
many things —I must try to bring you more food.
Perhaps I can even bring you some meat, although
that is less easy to get from my mother.’ In his heart
he was thinlang: ‘He will never make a priest.
Supposing he should talk in this queer way to sinners,
supposing he should suddenly start to preach about
there being no time and no distance, about everything
being only one thing; they would think he was mad —
even madder than Anfos.’ But when Christophe
insisted that it was not hunger, divining the doubt in
the heart of his cousin, Jan found his hand and held
it in his: ‘I am going to pray to our Lady of Good
Counsel, for I cannot myself comprehend what it
means any more than you can, and perhaps she will
help. God is three and yet one —do you think it
means that?’

Christophe shook his head: ‘More, oh, a great deal
more; and sometimes it seems to come very near, but
then it goes back and I lose it again.’

‘Goes back?’ murmured Jan.

‘Yes, back into me . . . deep down . . . and when
it is very deep down it is lost because I can no longer
think it . . . because. . . .’ He hesitated, bewildered.

And now his strange eyes looked almost beseeching
so that Jan made a last rather desperate effort: ‘I
have it!’ he cried, ‘I now know what it means; the
oneness you speak of means your Communion. By
receiving the wafer you receive our Lord. Of course
that is what it means, your Communion.’

320

Christophe’s hand turned suddenly icy cold as it
lay in the firm, warm clasp of his cousin, and he
shivered a little; ‘No . . . not even that. It means
more than receiving the Host — even more. But I
cannot, ah, no, I cannot explain; only sometimes I
feel that its meaning is — dreadful.’

Jan said solemnly, ‘Nothing can mean more than
God.’

‘Yes — but what does God mean?’ whispered
Christophe.

X

321

Chapter xxvii

§i

T ime went by: it was autumn, it was winter, it
was Christmas. Jouse confessed that he drank
too much wine, that his heart was consumed by
bitterness, that he frequently felt a hot uprush of
anger. Striking his breast he mumbled these things,
his bulk disposed awkwardly in the confessional which
was shallow and cramped, so that Joust’s big feet
stuck out ludicrously from its green serge curtain.
The Cure rebuked, advised and forgave, sighing
because of his penitent’s sins but also because his
own back was aching — he was now sixty-six and his
body grew stiff when he sat for too long in the same
position.

‘Make a good act of contrition,’ he sighed. And
Jouse made an act of contrition.

After this he lumbered away to his home, resisting
an overwhelming desire to turn in for a minute or
two at la Tarasque, trying not to think of past Christ¬
mas Eves that had been so prosperous, happy and
peaceful, but above all trying not to hate Kahn: ‘Ai,’
he muttered as he took his way past Kahn’s shop, ‘it is
hard indeed to be a good Christian.’

At the midday meal he abstained from liquor and in
consequence grew so deeply depressed that the house
seemed stifled beneath his depression. A large,
desolate, penitent sinner indeed, whose confession had
brought him no comfort or peace, but only a sense of
322

renewed desolation. And what could they do? It
was dreadful to see him sitting hunched in his chair
and he near to weeping. Marie racked her brains
for encouraging words, Christophe tried his best to
distract and amuse him, even Loup became docile
and ate the food that his mother had prepared, without
complaint; but Jouse’s whole being was one immense
ache for the solace that lay so close to his hand . . .
the strong comforting wine from the vineyards of
Provence.

Then quite suddenly Anfos began to laugh, and he
laughed and laughed, losing all self-control, so that
he choked and spat out his soup which ran down his
beard and the front of his shirt — a thick, greasy
trickle mixed with saliva. Clutching the tip of his
beard he sucked it, still choking and gasping and
spluttering with laughter, until in the end he must
hold his side and his belly: ‘O! O! Ai... ai... O! O!’
And he rocked himself now this way and now that,
‘O! O! . . . Ai . . . ai;ai . . . ai . . .’ spluttered
Anfos in a kind of agonized ecstasy.

Without warning, Jousfe leant forward and struck
him.

§2

Midnight Mass; the altar blazing wth candles
because once long ago a solitary star had served the
wise kings from the East as a beacon. Midnight Mfess;
the church fragrant with clouds of incense because
once long ago the reek and the steam of cattle, the
sweating of anxious peasants, incredulous, frightened
and wholly amazed, had lain heavy upon the air of
a stable. Midnight Mass; the Cure robed in white
vestments of satin embroidered richly with silver,
because once long ago a Child had been bom very
crudely and harshly into this world, with scarcely

323

a fold for His swaddling. Midnight Mass; God’s
atonement, man’s reparation.

From the organ-loft came the voices of children,
hesitating, uncertain — Adeste Fideles.

‘Ye faithful, approach with joy and with triumph.’
Then suddenly everyone singing at once in the prayer-
book-latin they had known since their childhood:
‘Gome ye; oh, come ye, to Bethlehem. Come and
behold Him, bom King of the angels.’

‘Oh, come let us worship; oh, come let us wor¬
ship,’ sang Jouse, his voice booming up from his
chest, ‘Oh, come, let us worship, Christ the Lord.
God of God, Light of Light. . .’ The high-soimding
words came loudly and confidently from his lips, but
his mind was disturbed because of a bruise that was
staining the drawn, puzzled face of Anfos.

‘Lo, He disdains not the womb of the Virgin. Very
God, begotten and not created • • •’ Anfos was
slowly stroking his hurt and wailing painfully out of
tune, ‘Oh, come, let us worship Christ the Lord.’
The notes wavered, growing jerky, confused, as
Anfos still stroked, then prodded his cheek; and he
missed out the final lines of the verse, got scared and
began all over again, ‘Ye faithful, approach with
joy and with triumph. . . .’

Then some impidse made Jouse look at his son.
Christophe was standing unnaturally still, his lips
closed, his eyes fixed on the blazing altar; and as
Jouse looked his voice died in his throat. Ah, but
no, this was only some trick of the candles! Cinrse
them; why must they blow about in the draught,
making grotesque and preposterous shadows? It
was only a shadow on the boy’s left cheek. What else
could it be that seemed so like a bruise. . . .?

Anfo s found his place and finished the hymn: ‘The
Word of the Father has appeared in our flesh. Oh,
come, let us worship Christ the Lord.’

324

§3

The Mass was over. They made their way to the
Creche, Marie holding Loup by the hand, Jouse
following with Anfos and Christophe.

‘Hurry, hurry!’ hissed Anfos in Christophe’s ear.
He was greatly excited because of a lamb that Jouse
had allowed him to car\^e for the Cure.

The Creche had a corner all to itself, and around
it was gathered a crowd of the faithful. Some were
selfishly trying to tell their beads while others must
wait, craning over their shoulders. The rocks of the
cavern that had served as a stable, were of cardboard
covered with painted paper. The Christ was of wax,
with a waxen smile; Mary and Joseph were made
of plaster as were also the three wise kings from
the East, the shepherds, the sheep, the ox and the ass,
so that the lamb car\’ed from Jouse’s fine oak by Anfos,
had quite a distinguished appearance.

Jouse pushed his way forward to where Madame
Roustan was reciting The Five Joyful Mysteries, with¬
out joy but with obvious determination: ‘Pardon,
Germaine, my wife also would kneel,’ he muttered;
whereupon Madame Roustan glared, then reluctantly
ceded her place to Marie.

And after awhile there was room for them all to
kneel down, so Anfos could see his lamb which the
Cure had been careftd to place in the foreground:
‘Bdu Dieu,’ remarked Anfos with deep admiration,
‘Beu Dieu,’ and he eagerly stretched his hand across
the low railing and stroked the creature.

Marie caught the hand and held it in hers: ‘The
lamb now belongs to Jesus,’ she whispered, ‘and He
may not wish you to play with His toys.’

‘But I also belong to Jesus,’ said Anfos. Then he
suddenly remembered the pain of his bruise and fell
to prodding his cheek once again,

325

‘C^spi! Now why must he do that?’ thought Jous^.

Loup started to fidget; his knees were so thin that
they generally ached a good deal when he knelt,
and moreover he had come to the end of his prayers
which were briefer than those of his aunt, Madame
Roustan. So now he could think of nothing to say —
that is nothing that seemed to fit the occasion — for
his thoughts had grown somewhat undisciplined and
were dwelling upon Eus^be’s legends. He sighed
noisily, shifting from knee to knee, biting his nails
and dropping his Prayer-Book, so that Marie released
the apprentice’s hand in order to put an arm round
Loup’s shoiilders. And as she did this she remembered
the time when he had lain helpless upon her bosom;
so small he had been, le pauvre tout petit Loup, and
because of his smallness so deeply appealing. Nor
was she the only mother that morning to indiilge
herself in such gentle remembering as she looked at
the Baby of Bethlehem who must lie upon straw from
the corn-chandler’s warehouse — Simon always sent
up the straw for the Creche, it represented his Christ¬
mas donation.

A crude and primitive thing that Creche, having
much that was pitifully childish about it; having
neither imagination nor skill; having neither dignity,
art, nor beauty. Yet to those who looked upon it wiA
faith, to the work-worn women who must bear many
children, to the work-worn men who must ceaselessly
toil, it appeared very natural and reassuring because,
somehow, so much a part of themselves. Mary and
Joseph ... no room at the inn . . . Ah, yes, there
was often no room at the inn for those who were not
possessed of riches. Pecaire, and the Child just about
to be bom! Ah, the poor blessM Mother ... no
room at the inn. And surely she must have felt
terribly tired, for had she not come a very long jour¬
ney? TThus they saw in that primitive Creche at Saint

326

Loup many things that suggested their own situations,
and would frequently leave it greatly consoled, so
that what it lacked in artistic worth it made up for in
the worth of the Spirit.

And to Christophe also there came consolation as
he knelt with clasped hands in front of the Infant.
For he seemed to divine many simple hearts; nay
more, to divine that all goodness was simple with
the wise and courageous simplicity of a God indivis¬
ible from His creation. And seeing the sheep, the ox
and the ass who had given their Lord their humble
manger, he perceived that they too, the dumb patient
beasts, had been lifted up on that day of salvation;
that the Christ who had willed to be bom in their
midst had thereby acknowledged a brotherhood
which much stretch far beyond the limits of time, since
He who conferred the grace was eternal. So now
Christophe prayed very confidently, and the prayer
that he offered was for MirHo, who gready loving had
gready fulfilled the law of her lowly but faithful
existence: ‘I would like You to keep her with You,’
he prayed, ‘until I come, Lord . . . tuitil I come. She
was very obedient when she was here so I do not think
You will find her much trouble; but she may feel a
litde bit lost without me because, as You know, we
were never apart. Please Lord, do not let MirHo feel
lonely.’ Then he suddenly added, ‘And take care of
Anfos.’

327

Chapter xxviii

§i

S PRING came, and as though the hopeful season
only served to make Jous^ more hopeless by con¬
trast, his fits of sudden anger increased as did also
those moods of despondent brooding. Not for long
had he managed to keep from wine after that sterile
Christmas confession, but now when he drank there
would follow remorse — a fresh scourge for tormented,
drink-sodden nerves and arteries growing always
more brittle. At such times he could hardly endure
to see Anfos with his mouth sagging open as he bent
to his carving, and yet he must stare at the ungainly
sight as though it possessed some grim fascination:

‘Dieu!’ he would mutter; ‘the man looks like a
beast; that face of his has become scarcely human.’

And conscious of those watchful, hostile eyes,
Anfos would often jump up in a panic, letting the
carving slip from his knees as he scuttled away to
hide himself in the attic, the shed, or even the privy.
Then J6us6 would heave an unhappy sigh and turn
to his son as though dumbly appealing: ‘What am
I doing?’ he would seem to ask, as his bloodshot and
hostile eyes grew remorseful.

In silence Christophe would leave the workshop,
bent on consoling die luckless apprentice, and the
man would cling to him desperately: ‘They will
send poor Anfos away, little master, and what will
become of him all alone? No one cares for him but
328

you, little master.’ And one morning he said a curious
thing: ‘MiraoandAnfos. , . I thirds, the same . , . .
because of their love . . . because of God’s love, your
love, Gk)d’s love ... I think, somehow, the same. Do
not send us from you . . .’ And he dropped to his
knees looking up into Christophe’s compassionate
eyes.

Then Christophe in his turn said a strange thing:

‘Where you are I am; where you go I shall come.
There is no separation, no going away . . .’ He
paused, bewildered by his own words.

‘Beu Dieu! Ah, Beu Dieu!’ smiled Anfos.

And true it was that Jouse had been thinking of
ridding himself of his mad apprentice — a dark thought
that had lately possessed his mind, though he knew
that the unhappy creature was harmless. But Anfos
made one more mouth to feed, one more body for
which he must somehow find clothing while his own
two sons went ill-fed and ill-clothed; and then there
was now that growing aversion.

He said to Christophe quite casually one evening
when they were alone in the workshop together: ‘I
shall have to get Anfos put under restraint. He is mad,
and we are too poor to keep him. I shall of course
ask our Cure’s advice, for I would not wish him un¬
kindly treated, but I know that many asylums exist
where such penniless people are cared for free. I
shall also have to consult the doctor.’ He did not
look at his son as he spoke, but busied himself about
his bench. ‘Say nothing as yet to your mother,’ he
finished.

It had come, the thing Christophe had long been
dreading; the thing that the madman himself had
known through the strange intuition of the insane,
the thing that had made him beg for protection. And
yet Christophe could see that judged by the world,
by the common standards of human reason, his father

329

would surely be justified, for their stock of money was
fast decreasing. But judged by something that was
far more profound, by the reason that animated the
spirit, this desertion of Anfos was terrible indeed,
though less for the servant than for the master.

‘My father,’ he cried, at that moment unable to
pause and consider what he was saying, ‘my father,
it cannot, it must not be. Anfos would die of grief
if he left us. You dare not betray him because of
our want. Ah, but listen, my father, Anfos feels love,
and those who feel love — even if they are mad —
become one with God. Will you drive God away?
Will you make Him suffer because we are poor?’
The words sounded preposterous, ridicifious, cra2y,
and hearing them Christophe came near to despair:
‘I cannot put it quite clearly . . .’ he stammered.

Then Jouse turned with rage on his son: ‘But yes,
but yes, you have put it too clearly. Very well do I
understand what this means; you care more for that
madman than for your parents. You care more for
Anfos, it seems, than for Loup who goes short of his
food because of the man. A fine story! Would you
have me believe that your God expects me to starve
my own flesh and blood in order that I may nourish
a stranger? Bien, then I say that you also are mad!
I will not keep the fellow, no, by God I will not, if I
have to drive him into the street, if I have to fling him
out with these hands . , .’ The rasping voice suddenly
choked and stopped as Jousfe pitched forward and
crashed to the groimd like a tree beneath the last
blow of the woodsman.

They heard the thud of his fall and rushed in,
Marie and Loup and the terrified Anfos. And a mighty
man indeed Jouse looked, lying there with his bulk
outstretched on the floor near his work-bench among
the sawdust and shavings. Maiie knelt down beside
him, stroking his forehead with fingers that neither

330

faltered nor trembled, and when she spoke her voice
sounded cold, for some anguish denes ail human
expression.

‘Loup, go at once for the doctor, my child.’ Then:
T think we must try to get him upstairs. Run, Anfos,
and ask Eusebe to help us.’

PaJe to the lips Loup hurried away, glad of any
excuse to escape from his father’s face, for now there
was blood on the beard; Jouse had grazed his chin
badly in falling.

Poor Anfos dashed headlong across the road:
‘Gome . . . come . . . come and help us, she says,’
he spluttered, tugging at Eusebe’s sleeve and forgetting
his erstwhile fear of the man in his eagerness to make
him move faster; ‘so big, so big, so enormous, so . . .
quiet.’ And Anfos suddenly started to sob, while
keeping his grip on the grimy sleeve ais he dragged its
owner towards the doorway.

In this fashion they returned to the Benedit’s house,
Eusebe protesting and Anfos sobbing. But when
Eusebe saw what had occurred he flvmg out his arms:
‘Houi!’ he exclaimed, his black eye very wise and full
of compassion. ‘Houi! Now here is a terrible thing to
have happened to so good and stalwart a fellow!’
And because he was deeply distressed, he spat.

‘I would wish to get Jfouse to bed,’ Marie told
him.

So Eusebe seized Jouse’s thick shotdders and tugged,
tripped over his long leather apron, cursed loudly and
started to tug again.

‘Ah, but gently . . . move him gently,’ begged
Christophe, going to the small sandal-maker’s aid,
as did Marie and the stiU weeping apprentice.

How they finally got Jouse up the steep stairs Marie
never knew, for her husband’s weight seemed incred¬
ible, unendurable almost. His head drooped iimjrly,
jerking a little firom time to time with their stumbling

33 ^

movements, so that she felt that her heart must break
to see him so dumb, so afflicted and helpless.

‘Ai,’ she thought, ‘and my Jouse would jest about
Death! Ai, ai, it is foolish to jest about Death, for who
can be sure that He is not listening.’

When at last Jouse lay stretched out on the bed
Eus^;be stood looking down at him grimly. Then he
rubbed a trickle of sweat from his eye, and a tear that
had somehow got mixed up with it: ‘Tron de Dieunel’
he swore angrily under his breath, surprised and
disgusted at his own emotion. After which he departed
without more ado and made his way down to Mfere
Melanie’s cafe.

§2

The doctor arrived to find Jouse still unconscious:
‘Your poor husband has had a stroke,’ he told Marie,
‘but I think he will live — yes, I think he will live;
though we cannot yet know the extent of the haemor¬
rhage.’ It appeared that little or nothing could be done
except to wait with courage' and patience.

Towards dawn Jouse suddenly opened his eyes:
‘Where am I? What is it?’ he mumbled thickly;
and he tried to raise himself in the bed. ‘My left side,
aU gone; all gone . . . my left side.’

‘Hush, belovM, you must lie quite still,’ Marie
warned him.

But Jousfe was restless: ‘I want my son . . . not
Loup, I want the other . . . not Loup. . . .’

Christophe said qmetly: ‘I am here.’ And he laid
his cheek on the tumbled pillow.

Jouse tried to smile: ‘Ah, bon, you are here . . .
What happened? I carmot . . . seem to remember.’

Then Christophe thanked God in his grief-stricken
heart: ‘I am close to you always — but always,’ he
whispered.

332

Very slowly Jouse found the boy’s hand, and raising
it to his lips he kissed it.

§3

Later on that morning Marie said to Christopher
‘You two were alone; tell me just what happened.’

‘It was Anfos . . .’he faltered uncertainly; ‘I did
not want him to be sent away, for he needs us so
much . . .’ And then he told her.

She listened to him in absolute silence, but when
at last he had finished speaking she said: ‘That was
not your father, my child — your father is kind and
courageous and generous. Did he not beg poor Anfos
to share our home? Did he not go and bring him down
from the mountains when you were still a small
baby in arms? It was surely not your father who spoke
of turning him out, but your father’s illness. We say
many strange things when we are HI, and the saints
who are good and wise do not listen — or if they do
listen they always forget. Let us also forget as your
father has forgotten. And now I must put some fresh
ice on his head.’

Thus did Marie release her son firom blame very
simply, even as she released her husband.

333

Chapter xxix

T he Cure stood tall and erect in the pulpit. His
brown and slightly prominent eyes which of
late had been dulled by advancing years, now blazed
with fanaticism. Extending an arm and a long white
finger he pointed down at his congregation who stared
back at Ae finger with something like awe as their
pastor continued to address them. The Cure’s voice
rang out like a challenge. It was virile, the voice of
a man of twenty whose physical passions were
clamorous, who could love and hate with intensity
should passion once get the better of reason.

A deep hush brooded over the ancient church,
brooded over those pallid upturned faces, for the
Cure was gripping toem one and all. He whose
bloodless sermons they had slept through so often,
was now skilfully playing upon their emotions as a
master will play on a violin, so that beyond a few
gasping sighs his words struck sharply on silence.

‘Rise up! Rise up!’ cried the Cure Martel, ‘Defend
yourselves against the blasphemers! The barbarians
have invaded France, our belovM soil is beneath their
heel, and like Attila they will show no mercy. Ah,
my brothers, my sisters, the soil of France is sobbing
and looking to you for deliverance. The very stones
are crying aloud for deliverance, yes, but also for
vengeance! The German hordes are defiling Li^ge,

334

they are raping and slaying women and children.
Belgium weeps this day side by side wiA France,
they two are united in die bonds of affliction. Their
daughters are outraged, their sons are slain, their
holy places are being polluted. It is surely the Anti-
Christ who has come. In the name of the true
Christ, rise up and destroy him!

‘Ah, my brothers, my sisters, I stand here before
you as your priest, but I also stand here as a man who
is filled with a righteous and enduring anger. And as
priest and man I solemnly declare that for us this war
is a holy war against a people possessed by Satan.
Yes, and this I declare in the name of peace, as one
who has given himself to Christ’s service: there can be
no Christian peace in the world, no peace that is
truly pleasing to God until Germany lies defeated in
the dust and burnt in the flames of her own damnation!
Therefore listen you who are the fathers of sons, give
your sons without stint, give them nobly, gladly, for
to-day there is only one Father—God; and God it is
who demands them of you. And you who are the
mothers of sons listen also, give yotu* sons without
tears, give them splendidly, sternly, for to-day there is
only one Mother — France; and France it is who
demands them of you. And you who are in the first
pride of your manhood, leave aU for the sake of God
and your country; for the sake of a noble and honour¬
able cause, for the sake of our hard-won civilization.
As I look upon you I feel my own youth rushing back
to me through your superb young valour. I feel your
strength entering into my arms, and into my voice,
and into my heart; and I say to the Christ: “Here are
those who will fight for the cross upon which You
were crucified!” And to France I say: “Behold your
defenders!” ’

The Cure made the sign of salvation and left the
pulpit — the sermon was over.

335

§2

Marie walked home between her sons and her brown
peasant face was patient but puzzled. A momentous
disaster had fallen upon France, this they had all
known before that sermon; indeed they had known it
for seven long days, talking of little else in then-
homes, in the streets and in the cafes. And yet Marie’s
face was patient but puzzled as she strove for a
fuller understanding of what this momentous disaster
might mean and, still stri-ving, fell far short of realiza¬
tion. For in spite of the Cure’s impassioned outburst,
August brooded placidly over Saint Loup, filming the
distant mountains with haze; while down in the
harbour not a vessel stirred, so immeasurably peaceful
and blue lay the water.

She said: ‘That was surely a very fine sermon —
very fine.’ But her voice was lacking in conviction.
She was tired and the war seemed a long way away;
much farther away than the large pile of laundry
which should have been finished on the previous
evening —for now Marie must earn by washing for
neighbours. Then she said: ‘It is strange how trouble
breeds trouble. Only four months ago came your poor
father’s seizure, and it may be that never again will
he stand; then comes this terrible German invasion.’
But Christophe knew that her thoughts were less of
the German invasion than of his father.

He nodded, finding no adequate answer, conscious
only of a well-nigh unendurable sadness, of a kind of
inexplicable grief which had come upon him all
unawares as he sat in the quiet, familiar church and
listened to that unfamiliar voice, so unlike the
monotonous voice of the Cure. He had been deeply
stirred by those eloquent words, catching fire firom
the man’s fanatical anger, so that he also had felt
enraged against those who had planned to destroy

336

his country; enraged and elated because of his rage,
and because he might one day go to the war unless, as
some thought, it were quickly over. He had seen
himself fighting shoulder to shoulder with Jan while
the regiment cheered their courage. A vision of glory
had obsessed his mind as he pictured the battlefields
of France with all a boy’s childish but courageous
illusions, with all the chivalry of his youth and a
certain stubborn simplicity bequeathed to him by his
peasant forebears; but then had come that strange
feeling of grief for which he could still find no explana¬
tion.

His silence, however, passed unnoticed, for le tout
petit Loup was intensely excited and was tr^ng to walk
with a martial stride as though he already felt himself
to be marching — he was making the best of his four
foot eight by craning his neck and squaring his
shoulders.

‘Tron de Dieune!’ swore le tout petit Loup in his
piping voice; ‘I will HU any German who dares to
show his face in our town. Ai! las, that I am not a few
years older! But I grow. Maman, am I not growing
quite fast? I shall soon be taU enough to enlist; I
shaU tell them that I am nearly eighteen and then they
will let me become a poUu. Already I can smoke
without being sick . . .’ And he suddenly produced a
bent Caporal firom his breeches pocket, and proceeded
to light it.

Maiie snatched the cigarette out of his hand: ‘What
is this? Who has taught you to smoke?’ she demanded.

But le tout petit Loup shrugged his shoulders and
griimed: ‘One cannot remain a baby for ever. At
my age one smokes as a matter of comse; moreover
I find that it helps my asthma. And as I get up at
half-past five every morning in order to sweep the
bazaar for that pig of a Bled, I certainly feel that I am
entitled to spend a few centimes on a packet of cigar-

Y 337

ettes now and then.’ And he actually winked qmtc a
large wdnk at Christophe.

Marie sighed. It was true enough that he worked
before school in order that he might assist them, and
this fact had made him exceedingly proud —it had
also made him exceedingly daring. More daring
than ever had Loup become, and so defiant that she
could not control nim.

Christophe worked these days at Jouse’s old bench
with Anfos to help whenever work offered, struggling
to keep the business afloat in spite of his youth and his
limited training, for he knew how much this meant to
his father. And a number of people had rallied to the
boy, doing all in their power to give him simple
employment, so shocked had they been by Jduse’s
stroke, but in spite of their kindness the burden was
great for such young and inexperienced shoulders.
Yet to hear Loup talk was to think that he only was
willing and smart enough to earn money. A scandal
it was the way the imp bragged as he jangled a couple
of sous in his pocket, as he told how he cheeked the
fat Monsieur Bled and had once dropped a dust-pan
onto his corn for the fun of heziring him howl with
anguish:

‘Hoi! but he howled!’ bragged le tout petit Loup,
‘Yes, and now he is careful to leave me in peace, for of
course he could see that I did it on purpose.’

Ai! las, ai! las, le pauvre tout petit Loup; he must
cough while he swept for all his fine bragging. The
dust woxild get into his treacherous lungs and the
impudence would be smothered by coughing; and
when he got home for his scanty meal before going to
school, he might have palpitations because so much
coughing had tired his heart which was less pugna¬
cious, it seemed, than its owner. And knowing these
things his mother was indxdgent, as indeed she
always had been in his case, for if Christophe was still

338

the apple of her eye, le tout petit Loup remained the
fruit of her compassion. So now she pretended not to
notice the wink, or the fresh cigarette which he took
from a packet and jauntily stuck behind his small ear,
in spite of the fact that the day was a Sunday.

‘We must hurry, my children,’ she said amiably.
‘Your father will be wanting to hear the news. He
will also wish to be told about the sermon.’

§3

Jouse was lying on the massive oak bedstead upon
which his father had lain before him. Here his parents
had consummated their love, bred children, and
finally passed to the beyond. And here he himself
had deflowered his wife, bred children, and would
almost certainly die — in accordance with the Benedit
tradition. The bed was so large that it dwarfed the
room, leaving but little space for its neighbours —
a washstand, two chairs and a small chest of drawers
were all that could find accommodation. Above
the bed hung a crucifix, and beside it, very quiet
but watchful, crouched Anfos.

J6us6 sighed, and Anfos stumbling up went and
fetched his master a glass of water, holding it clumsily
to his lips while the water spilled itself over the quilt
and splashed down the front of Jouse’s nightshirt:
‘Cool . . .’ said Anfos, sticking his finger in the glass
and smiling.

‘Ah, yes. . . it is cool,’ agreed JousA

The room was heavy with the heat of summer. The
small blind seemed imable to quench the sunshine,
the small window unable to let in fresh air, so that
what air there was smelt of clothing and illness — the
smell peculiar to poverty and to those among the poor
who are ailing. Anfos returned to his place on Ae
floor, shaking some drops of sweat off his brow like

339

a dog that has just scrambled out of a pond. From a
cork-tree in a neighbouring yard, came the ceasdess
oreaking drone of cingalas.

Jbuse’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 diligendy he
strove to be gentle, for now he bore Anfos no resent¬
ment.

Had Jouse forgotten? They could never be sure
and were carefiil 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; Uke 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

340

w£is 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: Tt goes better with you, my
father?’

Jous^ nodded: ‘But yes, it goes better with me,
except for that sore on the right of my back — I have
christened him Job!’ And he smiled a wry smile.
Then: T 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: ‘That 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,’ sighed Christophe.

Helped by Anfbs he turned Jouse onto his side, then
placed a timid hand over the sore, feeling all the while

341

very greatly afraid, because he must remember the
death of Mireio. AJfraid, yet conscious that his touch
did, in fact, possess some incomprehensible virtue
which fear went far to deprive of its power, and this
knowledge but served to make him the more fearful.

Marie was diligently dusting the room, and as she
dusted she told of the sermon, then went on to give
J6us^ the news of the war; ‘It appears so impossible,
so unreal that I do not seem able to grasp it,’ she
finished.

Jous^ listened, closing his eyes and his lips; the
latter in case he should be tempted to tell her of the
things that his eyes had actually seen as far back as
1870, on the bitter and terrible field of Sedan. He
had never spoken of those things to his wife although
sometimes he had shown her his medals. Ah, well,
here he lay only half alive; old, paralysed, and with
sores on his loins; imable to lift so much as a finger in
defence of France . . . Jouse groaned aloud.

‘Am I pressing too hard?’ Christophe asked
anxiously.

‘No, my son; no, no, it was something inside. Marie,
get me those medals out of the drawer. They should
be under my best black tie; or perhaps I left them
under my pants . . . Have you found them?’

‘Yes, they are here,’ she answered.

Le tout petit Loup sidled up to his mother: ‘Let
me hold them,’ he pleaded, ‘just for a moment.’

‘Well, only for a moment then,’ Marie warned,
‘No, Loup, I forbid you to put them on!’ But Loup
was already in front of the mirror.

‘Be careful! Ah', be careful!’ Jous^ exclaimed,
‘The ribbons are frayed, they may easily break.’ And
his speech was more laboured and indistinct because
he felt worried yet utterly helpless, and because he was
beginning to realize that a bedridden man who
survives too long may outlast the regard accorded to

342

illness. For le tout petit Loup ignored Mm completely,
tvdsting the medals tMs way and that, in order that he
nught admire their effect; ‘I have said ... do not do
it. . . the ribbons will break. Put them down. I have
said . . . put them down,’ stammered Jouse.

Then quite suddenly Christophe could bear it no
longer. Swinging round he grasped Loup’s shoulder
and shook Mm: ‘Will you give me those medals?’

‘I will not!’ Loup snapped.

‘But I say that you must.’

‘And I say I will not!’

‘Ah, bon, I shall have to take them,’ frowned
Christophe, dumping his brother onto a chair and
proceeding forthwith to unfasten the medals.

A fine hubbub to break out around a man’s ears!
Loup yelled as though he were being murdered:
‘Bttti!’ he yelled as he struggled and fought, working
Mmself into one of Ms rages, ‘Besti!’ And he managed
to slap Christophe’s face with all the strength that Ms
weak arm could muster.

Hit him back? Christophe dared not Mt such a
wisp. He was cowed, as Jouse had been, by Loup’s
weakness. All he could do was to rub Ms cheek; half
angry, half pitiful, half amused: ‘It would seem that
your muscles improve;’ he murmured.

And meanwhile Anfos had started to moan, slowly
and rhythmically rocking Ms body as though he were
keeping time to the dirge of his long-drawn-out and
lugubrious moaning.

Marie clasped her hands in a kind of despair:
‘Boudi^u! what a way to behave —what a way!
Loup, I command you, be silent this instant!’

But le tout petit Loup continued to storm, though
his fury had brought on a fit of coughing: ‘I think
I will hit Mm again,’ he choked, glaring defiantly at
Ms mother.

A fine hubbub to break out around a man’s ears!

343

Jdiise tried to shift his position but failed — his
sore was aching again quite badly. The sun burnt his
eyes even through the tond, even through his eyelids
when he had closed them, and his paralysed side felt as
heavy as lead — like a corpse he told himself that it
felt, and must start to wonder about this, dumbly.
The noise and confusion had worn him out, so that his
face showed the slight distortion that had been
bequeathed to it by the stroke; his mouth sagged
a little, downwards and open ... If only that sore
would leave him in peace ... if only Anfos would
try not to moan ... if only Loup would stop cough¬
ing and storming. . . .

In the end Marie pushed Loup out of the room and
turned the key on him: ‘Ai! las,’ she sighed, ‘he grows
more impossible to manage every day. Ai! las, what is
going to become of my Loup? So small he is, yet with
such inunense rages.’

But Christophe had turned to look at his father;
and he noticed the mouth with its unconscious sagging,
and the terrible stillness of the stricken side, and
the terrible patience of the closed, wrinkled eyelids;
indeed all that was pitiful he must observe with the
keen and relentless sight of the spirit, scourging
himself for his own harsh words, for the fear that he
seemed unable to conquer even in the presence of so
mighty a need: ‘I am surely a very great coward,’
thought Christophe.

Then he quietly walked across to the bed, trying
as he did so to move with precaution lest the crazy old
boards of the floor should creak, and he laid the
worn medals in Jduse’s hand with a gentle and very
courteous respect.

‘Pin them onto my nightshirt. . -.’ Jouse mumbled.

344

Chapter xxx

§i

As the fearful summer of 1914 dragged its festering
Xxwounds on into the autumn, Marie grasped the
meaning of war all too well, for war preyed like a
vulture on northern France and even on peaceful
and distant Provence. The abortive recapture of
Alsace and Lorraine with its triumph and subsequent
humiliation, the grim fighting retreat of the English
from Mons, the bombing of the cathedral at Malines,
the tales of outraged and slaughtered civilians, these
things gathered over Saint Loup like black clouds,
menacing its homes with sorrow and death as the
women of Provence gave their men — a proud but
very terrible giving.

Marie Benedit looked at her sons, and strive though
she might to put her country before even them in this
hour of its need, she yet thanked God that her sons
were so young; God and His Golden Saints she must
thank, for wmle man created the patriot, it was God
Himself who created the mother. Kneeling at the
shrine of the warrior-bishop, which now blazed with
perpetual votive candles, she prayed that peace be
restored to the world, that the days of their tribulation
be shortened. And beside her might kneel the plump
Madame Hermitte who also had sons and they older
than Marie’s, or the Simons whose Guillaume had
gone to the firont, or Elise whose husband was still
of the age and the disposition to see active service,
Madame Roustan, as Hkely as not, would be there,

345

grown a trifle pale and a trifle subdued because her
Jan was four months Christophe’s senior — even a few
months might count later on, might make all the
difference between life jand death, supposing the war
were of long duration.

In and out of the church went Monsieur le Cur6,
rejoiced by the sight of those blazing candles; and
quite often he would be accompanied by Jan, some¬
times bent upon prayer, sometimes bent upon tasks in
connection with the vestry, or perhaps the altar.'
Jan’s face had an eager yet stem expression, for his
mind was obsessed by the Cure’s preaching. Stern
too were the prayers that he offered up as he knelt
on the punishing stones of the aisle, feeling glad that
the stones shoxild bite into his knees, since those who
might be privileged to flght must first begin by sub¬
duing their bodies. And meanwhile the clouds grew
more ominous as the German guns crept nearer to
Paris, so that scarcely a home not already bereaved,
but was overshadowed by the threat of bereavement.
A mighty torrent of anguish and death was sweeping
over France and her people.

§2

Goimdran said to his wife: ‘In a few weeks’ time I
may well be catching some very fine fishes —steel
fishes with big, ugly German snouts! Thank God,
I am not yet grown too old.’ Then his eyes turned and
rested upon the child, and all of a sudden Goundran
fell silent.

Elise was carefully darning the jerseys which she
knew he would never wear in the navy, but which
none the less she must wash and darn because, in a
way, this task was consoling. The jerseys were so much
a part of himself and their life together that they
seemed to protect him by forming a closer link with a

346

past that had nothing more deadly to fear than the
mistral.

She looked up: ‘I would like you to take these with
you . . . when you go . . .

He nodded: ‘But surely I will. Why not?’ And
once again there was silence.

Presently he said: ‘About Aurano. There is still
that money untouched at the bank, and of course
there would also be some small pension. And then
there are my boats; they should fetch quite a lot. . .
I must speak of these things.’ He flushed awkwardly
because one’s own death was an awkward subject,
especially to discuss with one’s wife.

‘I will try to remember all you say,’ she promised.

Leaning forward he kissed her diligent hands, and
at this she must bend lower over the needle in case he
should see the dread in her eyes, and the tears.

‘Kind and very dear hands . . .’ he whispered.
Then because his own eyes were not guiltless of tears,
he started a boisterous game with his daughter: ‘Ho,
hoi! what a monster we have in our net! I believe
we have netted some species of dragon! Shall I
tickle him under his scales — like this?’ And Goundran
tickled the child’s small ribs.

Aurano wriggled, squealing with laughter.

* * *

Madame Simon sat reading a censored letter from
Guillaume; he was somewhere fighting for France.
Yes, but where? If only they might know where! She
said: ‘I would much like to have his address — it
would comfort me to have his address.’ For her mind,
even now, was not quite war-wise, so that sometimes
she said little foolish things, still thinking in terms
of safety and peace. ‘Never would he fail to give me
an address when he went away even for a night,’ she
finished.

347

Simon sighed as he looked at her, shaking his head
— like J6xis^ he had once fought against the Prussians.
When a lad he had stood on the fortifications of Paris,
so that Simon knew all about war and the way it had
of ignoring mothers, the poor souls . . . the poor,
anxious, pitiful souls . . . ‘Our son’s address is; La
Patrie,’ he told her.

She acquiesced meekly: ‘Mais oui, you are right.
I am stupid — I think I am growing old. Guillaume
sends you his love — but read for yourself. It appears
they are full of courage and hope, not at all down¬
hearted, om* Guillaume says. And he wants us to
know that he is quite well, that the life seems to suit
him —that he is happy.’

Hi 5le sis

At la Tarasque Mere Melanie opened much wine,
and not always, these days, would she accept payment.

‘Non, non, mon brave! Keep your firancs for your¬
self. And now give your Mere Melanie a good lass —
yes, and write to her sometimes when you get the
chance. Alexandre! Hurry up, Pierre waits for his
wine. And be careful not to slip on the cellar stairs —
you know what I told you, a bottle of porto.’

Mere Melanie must frequently wipe her eyes, fishing
her handkerchief out of the bag liiat contained the
piety medal and the lip-stick. And the more they
joked and kissed her and joked, and swore to come
back, if only to please her, the more she must fish in
the untidy bag. Ah, the lovely fellows!

‘Alexandre! Bring champagne, a couple of bottles.
Did you hear me, Alexandre? I said bring a couple of
bottles of champagne; and after that you can give us
some music.’

So the little violinist with the hump on his back
would fetch the champagne and then begin playing.
And now he played tunes that had come with the

348

war, some of which had been brought to France by the
English: ‘It*s a long, lon^ way to Tipperary,’ he played
— rather lugubriously, it is true, for he thought this
particular song melancholy.

And sometimes the clients would have none of it,
but must shout instead for a hoary old favourite:
‘ “As tu vu les fesses de ma belle Louise?” Tafort,
Alexandre! “As tu vu les fesses. . . ’

Then the little violinist would try to grin: ‘As tu
vu les fesses de ma belle Louise?’ he would play,
swaying lightly upon his toes as the insolent ribaldiy
pranced from his fiddle.

Eusebe would sit and dream in his comer; very
drunk, very old, and dirtier than ever. And his
dreams would be of more splendid wars, of more
splendid men, of more splendid women. Helen of
Troy he would love in his dreams while the wine made
a mock of his unnily senses and kindled his long
since impotent desires into besotted, virile illusions.
Nay, even Venus he would love in his dreams, and he
coming at her with the thunders of Jove... or was it
Apollo? Or was it Ulysses? His mythology grew
somewhat vague at such times but no matter, the
result would be much the same, and to Eusebe quite
satisfactory.

Then those who were about to lay down their lives
might start to jeer at the old sandal-maker; less
crudely, perhaps, than the men from the tartanes, but
nevertheless they might start to jeer: ‘Bon soir, mon
gm^ral. How goes the war? Superbly, no doubt,
since mon gen6:^ snores! Boudieu, what a scarecrow!
We will take you along to Berlin in order to frighten
the Kaiser.’

And perhaps Eusebe would open his eyes and just
stare at them blankly, vouchsafing no answer. One
evening, however, he jeered in hS turn: ‘How goes
the war? You may very well ask. “Kill!” you say.

349

“Hate and kill, kill and hate!” you say. But I
thought He told you to love one another . . Then
he drifted back again into his dreams.

‘Do not anger yourselves,’ begged M^e Melanie,
‘he is drunk, mes enfants, that is why he raves.’

And because they could see that Eus^be was drunk,
they humoured her, shrugging and taking no notice.

:(! ii:

Anatole Kahn was alone in his office. It was
midnight, yet his desk was still littered with papers, for
just lately he had slept very badly indeed — too many
thoughts would he have in hrs head, and those
thoughts were not always by any means pleasant.
Business was staggering from blow upon blow. No
one spent because no one would part with their
money, so the stock he had purchased just prior to the
war seemed likely to become shop-soiled in his win¬
dows. Amd not only this, but the villa was unsold,
while its neighbour remained scarcely more than
foundations. At the first crack of doom the young
men from the frontier had been snatched away with¬
out adequate notice, nor had others been sent to
continue the work; not the slightest effort had been
made to replace them. The contractor had remarked:
‘C’est la guerre, monsiem:.’ After which he had turned
a deaf ear to all protests. For the matter of that
Kahn’s own men had gone; he now possessed neither
joiner nor salesman.

But even before the declaration of war, the season
had fallen far short of expectations, and the usual
handful of artists who had come to paint the most
picturesque parts of the town, had left almost as soon
as the men from the frontier. They had packed up
their brushes and canvases and easels with a speed
that Kahn had found really astounding — some had
even forgotten to pay their bills, so keen had they been

350

to fight for their country. Thus two years in succession
rooms had gone unlet to everyone’s immense dis¬
appointment.

Kahn sighed; then he reread a letter, frowning:
‘We have got ourselves to consider,’ ran the letter.
‘Roux, as you know, we cannot consult, nor does one
worry a man on active service, but on his behalf as
well as our own we must remind you that the money
we invested in your venture gives us every right, . . .’

He flung the thing dowm with a grunt of disgust.
Already so scared and the war just begun! Fine
friends, the despicable, cowardly fools! But the mora¬
torium, ah, that was his friend, it might save him yet
and with him his business. There remained the affair
of the villas, pretty grim, but after all even that was
not hopeless. La Societe Fonciere du Midi could not
press for interest so long as hostilities continued,
and with peace there would come a house shortage, of
course. Taking up his pen he began to wnite:

‘Cher Albert. Here and now' I refuse to submit
. . .’ No, that would not do; he tore up the sheet.
‘Cher Albert,’ he began all over again, ‘I can only
entreat you and Edouard to be patient. Of course I
regret having bought that new stock, but how could
I possibly foresee what has happened? And that being
so I must beg yet again that you will not delay in
sending the cheque; I cannot keep this place going on
nothing. You say that you have ^ risked your money
in my shop, but while the shop prospered you pros¬
pered with it, and surely to despair at the first small
reverse in our fortunes, at a time like this, is bad
business. Have courage, I implore you to have
courage, my dear fiiends; with your help I can steer
the ship through the storm, I can bring our venture to
ultimate success . . .’ In this vein he wrote on for
page after page until his hand ached, and his head
and heart with it.

351

At last he addressed the envelope. Heaven knew
when the letter would reach them in Paris — the posts
from Provence had always been bad, and now they
were fast becoming abysmal. Then he suddenly
topped his head onto his arms. Dieu, but he was
tired! perhaps he could sleep. He would try to sleep
just where he sat — at his desk; better this than to
risk the insomnia that generally set in after undressing.

35^

Chapter xxxi

§i

T he months passed bringing neither mercy nor
respite, but only fresh hatreds to corrode the
heart as war swept civilization aside and men bred
and reared up in the knowledge of peace were now
forced to the fearful knowledge of killing. One after
another such men left Saint Loup, for the most part
simple, ignorant fellows who had seen only quiet and
seemly death, if indeed death had ever crossed their
vision; and one after another they must kill or be
killed, since not always are battles won by ideals —
they are sometimes won by self-preservation. And
yet through the welter of anger and blood, of agony,
mutilation and horror, there would shine out
triumphantly many a deed of selfless and thus very
perfect courage, as the finite claims of the quaking
flesh must give place to the infinite claims of the spirit.
And in this there would be neither friends nor foes,
but only those who gave of their best and became as
brothers because of that giving.

Completely bewildered by his own emotions which
grew daily more violent and more contradictory,
Christophe struggled to find the inward peace that
Jan and the Cure Martel had found; what they had
attained to, Christophe must seek with something
approaching desperation. For now there were times
when he could not endure a compassion that seemed to
be all-embracing, a compassion that saw but one
suffering whole on those terrible blood-drenched
battlefields, that perceived neither warring rulers nor

z , 353

nations but only a pitiful suffering whole rushing on
to destruction because of its blindness. Even love
itself seemed to resent such compassion, the deep love
that he felt for his native Provence; he would think
that the very soil cried out, raising its voice in protest
against him.

‘Cannot you understand?’ he would mutter, ‘I love
you—but cannot you understand?’ And yet as he spoke
them, the words would sound vague and unconvincing
because he himself lacked not only conviction but
understanding.

He had now little work to occupy his mind since
orders were growing scarcer and scarcer, and so he
would wander alone for hours through the country
that he had known from his childhood, through the
olive orchards climbing the hills, through the thickets
of maquis and out beyond to Mir^o’s grave and
Eus^be’s vineyards. And wandering thus he must
often indulge in imaginings that were becoming
fantastic: he would hear his own name in the songs of
the birds and would fancy that like the soil they
reproached him.

‘You are right,’ he would tell them, ‘it is I who am
wrong. I will tear this great foolishness out of my
heart — I will tear it out and trample upon it.’

Perhaps a stray mongrel would follow in his foot¬
steps, for although he himself went short of food yet he
could not endure that a beast should go htmgry, and
this the poor starvelings had come to know, so that one
or another would slink at his heels hoping that once
he had left the town he would fling it a crust of bread
from his pocket. The mongrel would always be
covered with sores, yes and with that dreadful humility
which incites the world to persecute its outcasts, and
seeing this Christophe would sit for awhile and fondle
its head, and make it lie down in order to ease the
pain of its limping.

354

‘There was once a dog called Mirdio/he would say,
‘she also was lame and had sores, like you. Her body
is buried not far from here, but the real Mireio is
safe — very safe.’ And then he would tell the mongrel
about God, and about the Little Poor Man of God
who had spent his life in preaching God’s mercy.
And if he had brought his midday meal with him he
would give it to the purulent, cringing creature, and
because he was able to lighten its burden by even so
much, his own bmrden would lighten.

Then something, perhaps the expression in its eyes
as the dog looked up, still hungry but humble, would
remind him of all that was pitiful: of Mireio who had
learnt to fear life more than death: of the harmless and
persecuted couleuvres; of his father who lay on the
massive oak bed; of his mother who toiled without
rest or hope; of le tout petit Loup with his labouring
lungs; of Anfos who carved mad, unearthly dreams
as he strove to conjure beauty from madness. And
the vision must widen until it embraced those unknown
millions who struggled and suffered; until he perceived
but one suffering through perceiving the anxious,
bewildered soul that looked out of the eyes of a starving
mongrel. Groaning, Christophe would cover his face,
conscious that his moment of respite was over.

There were days when he mustered all the strength
of his will to strangle compassion beneath feelings of
hatred, when he flung his imagination into space and
pictured the ruin wrought by the invaders: pictured
the blasted and blackened orchards, the pastures
whose greenness was tom arid trampled, the cornfields
ploughed by the harrow of death, the streams whose
waters were polluted by carnage. He would suddenly
cry out and shake his clenched fists, for the deep and
enduring anger of the earth, thus outraged, would
seem to leap forth and possess him.

Then his hands wotdd drop again to his sides:

355

‘It must be that they do not realize,’ he would Aink;
and that thought would persist until, in spite of
himself^ the anger had vanished.

In such a mood as this he sought Jan one evening,
knowing that in him he would find what he needed —
the conviction that at times it was right to hate, that
pity could only mean spiritual weakness. Jan wel¬
comed him gladly and, as always, he talked of the sins
committed against their country. The Cure, said Jan,
had spoken the truth in proclaiming the advent of
Anti-Christ.

‘Have they not destroyed Reims Cathedral?’
he demanded; his voice shaking, his fanatical eyes
ablaze. ‘Do they not seek to destroy our Lord Who is
no longer left in peace on His altars? And is this not
the work of God’s enemies?’

Christophe nodded: ‘Yes, yes, of God’s enemies.
To pity them therefore is surely a sin. . .

‘Those who pity are either cowards or fools, or
worse! But who pities them? What do you mean?’
And Jan looked at him sharply.

Then Christophe lied: ‘Not I!’

‘Ah, bon, for a moment I thought. . . .’

‘You may keep such thoughts to yourself;’ scowled
Christophe.

*

That night as he lay on his bed Christophe wept
very bitterly, not knowing why he was weeping. He
knew only that never before in his life had he felt
such a sense of complete desolation, such a sense of
betrayal, such a sense of grief, such a sense of loneliness
and desertion.

§2

The war passed into its second year, and now there
was no one who dared to predict when the end would

356

come or upon which side would lie the ultimate
victory. The seasons came and went in Saint Loup
bringing with them wind and sun and fixation, but
few men remained to care for the land; Eusebe must
work himself in his vineyards, sweating and swearing
as he sprayed and dug and felt the weight of his age
on his back which ached fiercely after a hard day’s
digging. ^ ,

‘Sarnipabieune!’ swore Eusfebe, T will bottle my
wine if I rupture my kidneys! Are my grapes to rot
because all men are knaves and imbecUes with their
hideous war? If I tread my grapes on the coals of
hell my wine shall be not only bottled but sold!’ And
he angrily deluged a quaking plant till its leaves
turned blue with sulphate of copper.

In the streets of the town might be seen the
wounded, who had wandered along firom a neigh¬
bouring chateau; the chS.teau was now a convalescent
home being run by a patriotic lady. And quite often
these wounded woiild stop and gaze at the ancient
church and the picturesque houses, or exclaim with
delight at a group of palms, or point to the tall euca¬
lyptus trees, for many of them were clerks from the
north who had passed their lives upon office stools
which had only been left for the mud of Flanders.
Now they limped, supporting their weight upon sticks
or swinging a shattered leg between crutches, or
trying to light a cigarette witii a brown-gloved hand,
palpably artificial. Some wheeled themselves in
invalid chairs, manipulating the wheels with much
skill as they eased them over the uneven cobbles;
while others coughed carefully, having been gassed
and sent to Provence because of its climate.

All things considered they were really quite cheerful
and would often visit the Cafe de la Tarasque where
they generally ordered a lemon squash, an iced
groseiUe or a cup of black coffee. And if M&-e

357

Mdanie in her own private sanctum occasionally
produced something stronger, the doctor was spared
any consequent grief — what the eye doesn’t see the
heart doesn’t grieve over. At the cafe there might also
be those home on leave who were drinking their fill
and a little bit extra, for when men have made
a long sojourn in hell it is not surprising that they
should feel thirsty. Then the whole and the maimed
would grow merry together, their jests being bandied
from table to table in the anatomical argot of war
with which even civilians were becoming familiar.

But the little violinist with the hump on his back
must often sigh as he looked at the wounded, and that
sigh would not be because of their wounds but because
he was actually filled with envy —it was better to
have a useless leg, an ersatz hand, or a lung that was
hardening, for the sake of glory, than an inglorious
hump because one’s father had kicked one’s mother.
And now when he played, in spite of his efforts the
fiddle would sound as though it were wailing, so that
M^re Melanie when he came to her bed must box
his ears for an indolent lout who no longer put spirit
into his tunes, although there was plenty of it in his belly:

‘To hear you is to think of a hearse;’ she would
rage. ‘Mon Dieu, you have cause enough to rejoice
that deformed as you are you need not fight. The
least you can do is to earn your keep!’ And then she
would suddenly box his ears, for the sight of him often
aroused her anger.

However, he would seldom reply to such gibes,
even when his belovM chastised him severely. What
W81S the use of trying to explain? And in any case he
would be fuddled with brandy.

§3

During November Goundran returned on the brief¬
est of leaves. He was browner than ever and appar-

358

ently he had caught many fish, though he seemed
disinclined to talk much about them. He never
patronised M^re Melanie, for long absence had made
of this husband a lover, and then in addition to his
wife there was the child, and then in addition to them
both there was the money. Goimdran must save
even out of his pay, just in case . . . No good spending
money on drink, it must all be put by for Elise
and Aurano. He lived happily during those few peace¬
ful days, lying long abed with Elise beside him; and
perhaps in the morning their couch would be shared
with thek energetic four-year-old daughter. Aurano
would climb onto Goundran’s chest and tug at the
chain of his large holy medal; an entrancing medal of
Saint George with a spear whose point was down
the throat of a dragon. There was also a ship upon
the reverse, and waves, and Jesus stilling the
waters.

‘Donne! donnel’ she would order imperiously; so
Goundran would slip it over his head and lay it in
her acquisitive hand, whereupon Aurano would start
to kiss it.

The time was too short to be wasted on friends —
Goundran’s home had become very precious to him.
AU the same they went to the Ben^dits, for he could
not help worrying himself about Christophe. He
found little hope and great poverty, and since there
seemed nothing that he could do except grieve, he
did not repeat the visit, speaking quite frankly that
night to his wife, for Goundran had always despised
self-deception.

He said: ‘I must live in the midst of war, therefore
when we are together I want to forget that the world
contains so much failure and sadness. Perhaps I am
wrong, unchristian even, but in any case that is the
way I feel, so I think that I will not see them again
imtil I am once more back upon leave.’ Then he took

359

Elise roughly into his arms, seeking forgetfulness as
he held her.

Guillaume also came home upon leave that winter,
but he had less cause to rejoice than Goundran, for
Qotilde had been trying to heal the wound of his
absence by a series of \^^d flirtations; indeed gossip
regarding her conduct was so rife that Guillaume went
off to consult his mother.

Madame Simon sighed, but she did what she could
to reassure the unlucky yovmg husband: ‘Clotilde is
foolish, that I admit. Yet I cannot think that she
means any harm. Do not worry about it too much,
my son.’ For her only desire these terrible days was
to keep all trouble and sorrow from Guillaume.

Very thin he had grown; and his eyes looked
strained — there was something haunted and scared
about them: ‘Ah, what I have seen . . .’ he would
say and then stop, hastily lighting a fresh cigarette
with fingers that not infrequently trembled. A sick
man he was in body and mind, for Guillaume was
far too gentle for war; if he lived the misery of it would
break him. So now to his poignant distress about
Clotilde, he must add quite a number of lesser
distresses; his mother’s hair had turned almost white,
and this struck him as not only pitiful but tragic, he
continually fretted because of her hair, and because
his father also was ageing. He went often to church
yet he seldom prayed; he would just sit gazing down
at his boots in a sort of humble, helpless dejection;
and when he got home he would sometimes ask
his mother if he had harmed anybody:

‘I have always wished to be kind,’ he would sigh,
‘but it seems that in life we fail to be kind, very often.
I know that I hint Papa Jouse.’

‘Nonsense, my child, you are kindness itself—
and good.’

‘No, no, I hurt Papa Jous^.’

360

Indeed the thought of his godfather’s illness and
poverty was becoming an obsession: ‘I think of him
when I lie down to sleep; I think of him even out there
at the front, and of how I gave in to Clotilde about
Kahn ... It was weak, I ought to have been rnore
firm. Papa Jouse should have made our marriage
bed. I believe that my weakness brought on his
stroke . . . .’

‘That is folly, Guillaume,’ Madame Simon would
tell hini.

Then perhaps his father would take a hand:
‘Allons, mon gars, such thoughts are morbid; and you a
fine fellow in uniform defending us aU, and you brave
as a lion!’

But one evening Guillaume burst out abruptly:
‘Not brave, a coward — I am always afraid!’ For he
had not yet grasped that the bravest man may very
weU be the man who is frightened.

Poor Guillaume, he was certainly one of those whom
nature had fashioned for kindlier business. A bad
soldier he made, always slightly bemused, always slow,
and at moments intensely stupid; the despair of his
sergeant, the despair of himself, and the butt of his
less sensitized companions. He hated his life and would
sometimes think that the poUus who got themselves
killed were lucky. The noise of a battle shattered his
nerves, the stench of its carnage sickened his stomach,
but the cruelty of it went deepest of all, for that
struck at his shrinking, horrified spirit.

From his wife he derived but small sympathy; she
admired the warriors who took warfare more lightly,
and who when they came home had got just two ideas
in their pates: much wine and violent love-making.
Guillaume wanted to make violent love, it is true,
but his methods now often seemed to her childish;
why, once he had burst into tears and sobbed imme¬
diately after having possessed her. Shaking and

361

sobbing Guillaume had lain, nor had he vouchsafed
any clear explanation, so that in the end Clotilde
had been terrified and had spent the rest of that night
in the kitchen.

On another occasion he had been quite unable to
satisfy her clamorous body: ‘But what is the matter
with you?’ she had asked. ‘You are well, you have not
even been wounded!’ And Guillaume had felt himself
flushing with shame as he pleaded that war was a
tiring business. His leave was not at all a ‘success,
although he had longed for it so intensely.

Before he went back to the firing line he begged
Marie to let him speak with her husband; and Marie
consented: what else could she do? It was not in her
kindly heart to refuse him.

Guillaume stood awkwardly at the bedside; he was
speechless at first because of the shock of Joust’s
greatly altered appearance.

Then Jouse said: ‘Ah ... so at last you have
come.’ And this struck the young man as an odd way
to speak, for it sounded as though he had been expected.

‘Mais oui, I have come. Papa Jous^,’ he faltered.

‘I knew you would, Guillaume,’ Jouse went on, ‘you
are worried about having gone to Kahn. You think
that I find it hard to forgive — but I cannot any longer
feel really angry. Ah, no, when a man must lie on his
back all day he has surely time to forgive; and in any
case it was a small thing, my godson.’

But Guillaume was bent on accusing himself:
‘Nothing is small that wounds,’ he said slowly. ‘If I
wound^ you then I did a great wrong for which
I can only ask your forgiveness. I have witnessed
many terrible sights, and now I desire to be kind —
always kind. Many very terrible sights I have
witnessed. . . .’

‘Yet it seems that you see beyond them,’ murmured
J6us^.

362

Stooping, Guillaume kissed the quiet, paralysed
hand: ‘All is happy between us then? All is forgiven?’

_ ‘But yes,’ Jouse smiled, ‘all is happy indeed; and
listen, I am going to tell you something: I feel that
when next we two meet I shall walk. . .

‘Pecaire,’ thought Guillaume, ‘the poor hopeful
man; never wiU he walk in this world any more.’
Aloud he said: ‘God grant that you are right. And
now it is time that I went, it grows late. Bless me.
Papa Jous^.’

And J6us6 blessed him.

i|C * *

In the workshop Guillaume said good-bye to Chris-
tophe, and he fancied that he was seeing this boy for
the first time in his life, and that what he saw was
somehow unreal and yet convincing. Great beauty
he saw, and pale, luminous eyes that were looking
at him with such vast understanding that he longed to
lose himself in their depths, to bathe his spiritual
wounds in their mercy.

‘It must be that I am imagining things,’he thought,
‘and that will not do at all. Is this not Christophe,
the carpenter’s son whom I have known since he was
a child? Yes, surely this is Christophe Benedit —
there is nothing whatever unusual about him.’

Christophe said: ‘I am glad that you came here
to-day.’ And Ms voice was so natural that Guillaume
felt relieved; it was breaking and therefore a trifle
grufif, wMch only made it the more reassxuing.

‘I also am glad that I came . . .’ answered
Guillaume.

After wMch there ensued an awkward silence, for
youth is shy of expressing emotion and neither of them
could find just the right words, so that in the end they
gravely shook hands and Christophe toned again to
his work-bench.

363

Chapter xxxii

§i

F ew things happened to break the monotony of
misfortune that hung over the Benedit household
as savings dwindled to vanishing point and could
thus no longer augment scanty earnings. Even the
war grew monotonous, so that at times it seemed to
Christophe that the world must always have been at
war, the streets always full of the mutilated, the
church always filled with black-clad figures who knelt
to pray for the souls of their dead — the women hiding
their tears beneath veils, the men dry-eyed and grim
in their stiff new mourning.

Scarcely anyone came to see Jouse these days, for
in spite of a genuine sympathy people were growing
used to his illness. And what was that illness of his,
after all, when compared with the scourge that was
decimating youth? The paralysis of an ageing man
had ceased to stir the imagination.

Eusebe would come and sit with his friend, but now
Eusebe was always complaining. He had rheumatism,
he declared, in his loins, the result of working among
his vineyards, and whenever he moved he gave a
deep groan, gripped his back and started cursing the
Germans. Jouse suspected that Eusebe was not quite
so suffering as he pretended, that the groans were in
order to get sympathy — although this was certainly
very unlike him. Indeed Jouse had begun to wonder
of late if this barefaced pagan sometimes felt lonely;
disregard of neighbours might be all very fine so long

364

as a man retained physical vigour, but when aches
and pains came to stiffen the joints and the lumbar
muscles then it was that most men acquired much
more respect for the world’s opinion.

Madame Roustan occasionally visited Marie, but
these visits of hers were extremely unwelcome. She
had always managed to thrive upon woe, and just now
she had more than enough to thrive on. She would
sit there dilating upon the stroke that had prematurely
removed her own husband:

‘Ai! las,’ she would sigh, ‘he died at his post like
a soldier, he was actually measuring ribbon. I myself
was behind the desk counting change when I suddenly
heard a soimd like a gurgle. Ah, bon Dieu, what had
happened? A gurgle I heard, and there was my
Geoffroi lying flat on his stomach across the covmter
with his head hanging down. His face was as red as
the ribbon in his hand. ... I distinctly recall that the
ribbon was red . . . red satin at one franc fifty
the metre.’ And from this she would go on to give
all the details of poor Monsieur Roustan’s post¬
mortem appearance: of the manner in which they
adjusted ms jaw and combed his beard and parted
his hair; and of how they had not liked to keep him
too long before screwing him down, because of the
thunder. In the end she would always say much the same
thing: ‘Mais, ma cherie, I am thankful Geoffroi was
taken. It is surely a million times better to die than
to linger on in a living death.’ A truth that her
listener would find far from cheering.

Sometimes Jouse would thump the floor with the
stick which they always put on the bed beside him,
and hearing tins Madame Roustan would go, but
dolefully as though leaving a funeral.

‘Eh bien,’ J6us6 would say when his wife appeared,
‘has she pluckfed the eyes from the dead man’s carcase?
Never mind, Marioun, you are rid of her at last.’

365

And then he would laugh his thick, difficult laugh, for
his sister could no longer arouse his ire, he had grown
to think her too trivial a person.

But one evening there arrived at the Ben^dit’s
house a person who was far from being trivial.
Monsieur Roland arrived, no one less, if you please.
And why? To discuss le tout petit Loup, his abilities,
and his possible future. Loup had now left school and
was working long hours at the Bazaar Bled as general
factotum, and this Monsieur Roland appeared to
deplore while admitting that it must go on for the
present.

Said he: ‘Loup was always an excellent pupil and
I cannot but tmnk he is being wasted; however,
Madame, I quite realize that money is none too easy
to come by. But after the war I think Loup should go
in for the higher examinations, and then I would like
to see him train as a teacher. Once the war is over
I can do several things: I have one or two friends who
are influential and I mean to interest them in our
Loup so that he may continue his education. A little
assistance, n’est-ce-pas, chere Madame? Enough to
replace his earnings perhaps, so that he can be firee
to go to the Sorbonne. No, no, do not thank me, I do
this for myself quite as much as for him; it is good for
my prestige, it is also good for the prestige of the school.
A really promising pupil is rare, and when one is
discovered there are those who will help him. Of
course there arises the question of health — Loup is
not over-strong and that is a drawback; still I think
that we ought to take the risk. ... In any case I am
willing to take it.’

Christophe and Marie stared in amazement; they
could scarcely believe their ears; were they dreaming?
Imagine such a thing, le tout petit Loup so clever that
he would become a teacher! Imagine such a thing
. . . le tout petit Loup!

‘Ah, Monsieur . . they began simultsineously.

Then Marie said: ‘This is a miracle. This is surely
the work of his dear patron saint.’

But le tout petit Loup said nothing at all, main¬
taining a rather ominous silence.

When Monsieur Roland had taken his leave, Marie
hurried away to inform her husband that le tout petit
Loup was already made: ‘Did I not say that Jan
might be clever but that all the same our tout petit
Loup was as wise as an owl and as sharp as a needle?’

Jouse nodded: ‘And the Sorbonne is quite as fine
as the Grand Seminaire, I believe,’ he informed her;
‘nor do I doubt that the good Roland’s friends are
quite as fine as Madame de Berac! When next
Germaine comes you can tell her this news; but first
bring her up here — I would see her face. Boudieu,
I would not miss Germaine’s face when you tell her
this news for a thousand francs!’ And since Jous^
was still only human, he chuckled.

Then into the room marched le tout petit Loup,
his cheeks flushed, his monkeyish eyes bright with
temper. At his heels followed Ghristophe looking
perturbed:

‘Loup is greatly upset,’ he whispered to Marie.

And undoubtedly Loup was greatly upset. Spinning
round he stamped his foot at his brother: ‘Stop
whispering, will you? It gets on the nerves. I cannot
support your eternal whispering. If you want to say
something then say it out loud. You will drive me
mad, hissing there like a snake! And in any case, why
are you interfering?’

‘Santo Ano d’At!’ his mother exclaimed; ‘Santo Ano
d’At! Now, what is the matter? Here is heaven
showering blessings into your lap and you take this
occasion, it seems, to be rude. You ought to thank
God for all He has done. Why, you ^d not even
trouble to thank your master.’

367

But le tout petit Loup flung up his small head,
clenching his hands in an eflfort not to wheeze as he
valiantly choked back a fit of coughing: ‘I refuse to
be a fat Monsieur Roland,’ he spluttered; ‘I refuse
to sit on my behind all my life and wear glasses that
make my eyes look like marbles; I refuse to grow bald
and have rolls of pink flesh at the back of my neck
bulging over my collar; I refuse to scrawl things on a
blackboard with chalk and then rub them off again
with a duster; I refuse to teach fools who do not want
to learn, and who when they have learnt still remain
imbeciles. Moreover I have chosen my future career.
My mind is made up: I shall enter the army. And
kindly do not call me le tout petit Loup. Do you
hear? I say I will not be called. . . .’ He sat down
abruptly, clutching his side, ‘Not le tout petit Loup
... no ... no .. . not that . . . not le tout petit
Loup ... I tell you I hate it!’

But in spite of his angry, protesting spirit, Loup
must submit to a physical body, must submit to being
laid flat on the floor by Marie while Christophe rushed
off to get water, must submit to Joust’s solicitous
warning that when one possessed so feeble a heart
one could ill afford to give way to temper.

‘Try to be calmer,’ entreated Jouse; ‘it is very un¬
wise to become so excited.’

Ail las, ail las, le pauvre tout petit Loup — though
when Christophe returned he was already better.
He had still got youth to fight on his side and these
sudden attacks were of short duration:

‘Take your arm away,’ he said peevishly as he
gulped down the water. And then to his mother:
‘Stop dabbing my forehead; it is nothing at all. I do
wish you would stop and leave me in peace — so
much fuss about nothing at all, it is childish!’

Getting up he made his way out of the room very
slowly, and still slowly he went downstairs, thr us ting
368

his knuckles into his eyes because tears were un¬
thinkable for a soldier.

Marie tried to follow: ‘He will surely die;’ she wept,
‘B^i Santo d’or, we shall lose him.’

But Christophe laid his hand on her arm: ‘I 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 Jdus^’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 ^d 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,’ he would say; ‘as for
me, I could never have made mimosa.’

Jous^ dreamed vividly these days, tmcertain 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

AA 369

present. Of his childhood he dreamed and must
sometimes laugh because of a childish peccadillo;
of his youth he dreamed and of budding manhood,
happy years when he took great pride in his muscles,
when with three mighty blows he had felled a tree,
and a hefty fellow at that, he told Christophe; and
then of his courtship of Marie he dreamed, he would
constantly dream that they two were courting.

‘Ah, my son, to-day I was wooing your mother.
So young she was and a little bit frightened. Ah, my
son, there was not a line on her face, nor a single
white thread in her thick black hair. She was wearing
a comb I had given her; there were many small
scrolls of gold upon it. It had once belonged to my
great-grandmother — the one who was loved by a
Spanish sailor; but she would not have him, caspis-
t^o, she would not! She preferred an honest joiner
from Provence.’

But of all his recurrent dreams there was one that
Jduse affirmed to be the most persistent. Mirao
would come padding up to the bed and would lay
her great paws upon his chest, the while she looked at
him very intently; and then she would suddenly lick
his cheek and look at him again. Jous^ always de¬
clared that Mireio was trying to tell him something.
And one evening Jouse said to his son:

‘I think I now know what she wishes to tell me.
It is that she wishes to say she forgives. ... I am
glad she forgives me that terrible beating. Ai! las,
the poor beast, I must have been mad, for I beat her
until she was bleeding and spent. . . .’

‘You beat her?’ breathed Christophe, grown
suddenly pale.

Jous^ nodded: ‘Yes, yes, I beat her; and this
I did for your sake, my son; I did it because I thought
she might harm you. I beat her although she was
covered with sores. . . . Ai, ai, if her sores were

370

throbbing like mine. . . And Jous^ went on to tell
of that night when he had rushed round to Madame
Roustan’s and had found the bitch crouching near-by
the cot: ‘She was savage with love as I now know,’
said Jous^, ‘but then I did not comprehend how it
was; I thought that my son might well be in danger.’
At great length he spoke of his brutal deed, con¬
cealing nothing — it was like a confession. And when
Christophe besought him to say no more Jousfe held
up his hand, compelling attention: ‘I want to tell
you the truth, the whole truth; for a very long time
I have wanted to tell you.’ Then Christophe knew
that his father must speak, that the words were
wiping a bruise from his spirit.

And as he listened with tears in his eyes and great
pain in his heart for MirMo’s suffering, he was con¬
scious of that sense of oneness again, suddenly per¬
ceiving that the pain in his heart was not for the
suffering Mireio alone, but also for the man who
had caused her to suffer. At that moment Christophe
came very near to a more perfect understanding of
God; but the moment passed, leaving him desolate,
and he hid his face against Jouse’s shoulder.

Chapter xxxiii

§i

D uring the autumn of 1916, that never to be
forgotten autumn when France bled from a thou¬
sand unstanched wounds, Anatole Kahn faced ruin.

Many urgent letters had followed that first warning
letter from his business associates in Paris, but now
had come one that he could not ignore, that he dared
not ignore — it was brutally final. The Galeries Kahn
must be offered for sale and their contents would have
to go under the hammer. No more pouring of money
into a sieve, no more bolstering up of a worthless
business. Kahn’s associates had consulted, it seemed,
and were quite determined to cut their losses. They
went on to state that for more than two years they had
foolishly pandered to his importuning, but that as he
had now clearly lost his head they themselves would
conduct all the final arrangements. The shop would
be put in an agent’s hands at once, while the auction
would be left to a firm of well-known auctioneers in
Toulon. The original scheme had been his, all his.
It had not succeeded; he had over-spent outrageously,
he had squandered their money; very well, he must
be prepared for the fact that they did not any longer
intend to support him. No more demands for money
would be met beyond the very barest obligations until
such time as the property was sold. As for Kahn he
would get his fourth share in the proceeds of anything
that was saved from the wreck, but they wished him

372

distinctly to understand that once this venture had
been wound up they intended to sever all business
connection. It would surely have been far more
honest and wise had he seen fit to tell them the true
situation instead of insisting each time he wrote that
the business was just on the verge of reviving. He had
known that one of them was at the front, while the
others were engrossed by important war-work and
on this they all felt that he had presumed; indeed
they were not sure that after the war they would not
immediately start a proems unless he fell in with their
decision at once, abiding in every respect by their
wishes. These and many other statements that letter
contained, none of which was very easy to stomach.

A nice kettle of fish and no mistake. Kahn twisted
and turned like a rat in a trap, while feeling himself
to be utterly helpless. They were three to one, they
were adamant, and the Calories Kahn would have
to go — he was overwhelmed by an immense self-pity.
And true it was that every centime he possessed had
been risked for the sake of those dreams of his, quite
as much as for personal ambitions. Those dreams
had already cost him his savings, his rings, his gold
watch, even Beauvais’ picture. Yes, even the picture
had been sold in the end to a disagreeable and close-
fisted dealer. Nor had Kahn shrimk from subduing
the flesh, cutting down his food and wine and tobacco;
denying himself the society of a certain large-hearted
lady at Saint Raphael; for into the conception of the
Galeries Kahn as into that of those jerry-built villas,
had gone something of the man’s very body and soul;
he had fathered them as men father their children.
They had leapt in the womb of a sorry ideal — an
ideal that had meant more to him than women.

Anatole Kahn looked around his shop. He looked
at Ae gilt that the salt air had tarnished, at the cheap
cerise satin and cheaper plush that the careless sun

373

of the south had faded, at the clocks whose oil had
dried on their wheels, at the Japanese trays that had
lost their sheen, at the joss-sticks that no one had
bought for months, at the fly-blown frames of the
sentimental pictures; and all that he beheld showed
the hatred of Time for the soulless and would-be
time-serving craftsman. Nor was anything else in
much better case; upstairs the moth had got into the
bedding, and downstairs in the cellar the damp had
returned, injuring the rugs and some large rolls of
matting. Single handed Kahn had been no match
for Time whose whirligig had brought in its revenges.
And how much would this shop-soiled stock fetch
when sold? Very little indeed, its owner decided,
not enough to keep a man going for long. Then what
did it mean? Destitution . . . starvation?

Anatole Kahn made his way to the villa that was to
have been the forerunner of many. There it stood an
unlovely and unloved thing, a home that no one
apparently wanted. Its walls were already cracking
and stained, its wrought-iron bell-pull already rusted;
while some urchin had used his catapult with devas¬
tating results to its windows. And as though this
were not enough, it appeared that the land — which
sloped sharply downward from Beauvais’ — was
enleagued with the always incalculable sea, and had
thus from the first been a bad proposition. The sea,
resenting the viUa no doubt, had oozed itself into its
very foundations, creeping up through the boards of
the dining-room floor upon which it had left a species
of fungus. The whole structure exuded an atmosphere
of failure, neglect and disintegration.

Kahn suddenly collapsed on a heap of rubble that
some careless workman had left in the kitchen, then
he buried his face in his shaking hands. Such vast
sums he still owed the Societe, and no money where¬
with to pay the high interest. That the moratorium

374

had saved him so far he now considered but a small
consolation; the war over, his property would be
seized, and even this war could not last for ever. ^
‘Qpelle mis^re . . . mon Dieu, quelle misere!’
he moaned, as large, womanish tears trickled through
his fingers.

§2

Gossip had always been rife about Kahn since the
days when he had first divulged his gfand schemes,
and now it was raging throughout the town; everyone
knew of his desperate straits despite his efforts to throw
dust in their eyes, for all little communities seem to
possess a mysterious bureau of information.

For some time his fame as a man of affairs, as a
prophet and apostle of progress had been waning. For
some time they had held aloof from his shop, partly
because they had not wished to spend but partly because
they had begun to feel mistrustful; the goods he had
sold them had not worn well when compared with
Joust’s stalwart productions. Then again, they con¬
sidered that his prophecies had not only been very
misleading but expensive. A prophet, mey jeered,
should have foreseen the war and in consequence
not urged the spending of money. They were bitterly
disappointed in Kahn who had raised such high
hopes only to dash them. And as frequently happens
to those who serve their own ends by augmenting
the greed in others, Kahn himself became the
first victim of that greed — people whose pockets
he had failed to line had very naturally come to
dislike him.

But now that he was bankrupt, now that everyone
knew he had only possessed a foiuth share in the
business, that in fact he had never been wealthy at
all, the dislike of him blazed with surprising vigour.

375

Ah, the fraud, and he talking of all his fine schemes,
and of all he would spend, as though he had millions!
And he ruining Jous^ BenMit and bringing about
that incurable illness; J6use Ben^dit who had been
bom in Saint Loup, who belonged to Saint Loup,
who was a part of the town, a tradition as his father
had been before him; what an outrage that was,
when one came to thiiik, one’s own neighbour rolled
in the dust by a stranger. There were even some folk
who remarked that Kahn’s name was, to say the
least of it, highly suspicious, who declared that he
might very well be a spy, this in spite of the fact that
the gentle old mayor insisted that such a suspicion
was foolish: ‘You do not believe it yourselves,’ said
the mayor, which was true enough, no one really
believed it. The fact was that nerves were badly on
edge; it had been an appalling spring and summer
with the enemy pressing on every side and causing
an indescribable slaughter. The fate of the Allies
had hung in the balance, and now there had come
the French counter-offensive with its long lists of
missing, wounded and dead; small wonder that
nerves were badly on edge as death swept like a
whirlwind over France, devastating the peacefiil
homes of Provence. And then there were those who
could honestly say that Anatole Kahn’s advice had
misled them; Mere Melanie, for instance, who had
nm into debt through making extravagant alterations,
and Hermitte who now never ceased to wail that
restoring his attic had cost him a fortune, and Madame
Roustan who had done up two rooms in the hope of
obtaining a substantial profit. No denying that
Anatole Kahn was to blame; no denying, either,
that most people blamed him.

But strangely enough his worst enemy was a gentle
and very innocuous person. It was Guillaume Simon
who harmed Kahn the most and this, as it happened,

376,

he did by dying. He had died of wounds at the
battle of the Somme, and Saint Loup had elected to
make him its hero, although why, not a soul in the
town could have told — there had never been any¬
thing heroic about him. However, he served as a
most handy scourge wherewith to lacerate Kahn’s
shr inking shoulders; there was neither rhyme nor
reason in the thing, but then war itself is a monstrous
unreason. So now there were many who muttered
dark threats whenever they passed the unfortunate
tradesman, who shook their clenched fists as they
walked by his shop — presumably for the glory of
Guillaume; who chalked up: ‘Herr Kahn’ on the
shop door at night, yes, and other extremely un¬
pleasant things, to the great indignation and fear of
its owner.

Only the Benedits and old Eusebe seemed unmoved
by this explosion of public feeling. Eusfebe shrugged,
spitting contemptuously: ‘The beast has not changed
his species,’ he remarked; ‘a pig wUl always remain
a pig.’ After which he went off to buy flannel in the
town — red flaimel, that infallible cure for lumbago.

Madame Roustan visited Maiie in vain, nor could
she get much satisfaction from Jous^. Marie said:
‘But we do not think him a spy, and as for his business
having come to ruin — eh bien, that cannot make
Jouse walk; there is nothing healing about Kahn’s
misfortune.’

And her husband nodded: ‘You are right, Marioun,
I cannot run off to join in the rejoicings; moreover
two failures do not make one success.’ Then he
yawned very loudly and closed his eyes as a hint to
his sister that he would be sleeping.

But if J6us6 had ever desired revenge, then very
assiuedly he now had it, for at night Kahn would lie
wide awake in his bed listening to sounds, always
listening to sovmds, most of which were produced by

377

imagination. At other times he would think he smelt
smoke and would ransack the place from garret to
cellar, shivering because of his horror of fire — sup¬
posing they should burn him alive as a spy? Such a
thing might occur at a time of war-madness. Getting
back into bed he would start to think while still
hearing those sounds and still smelling that burning;
amazin g how acute his perceptions had become, and
all able to function at once — amazing. Hark! Was
that someone at the front door . . . ? He had told
Hermitte that he was an Alsatian, he distinctly
remembered having told the fool; then why did not
Hermitte come out and say so? An Alsatian he was.
All the days of his childhood had been passed on his
father’s farm in Alsace; he could see the house now,
a poor sort of shack surrounded by poor, unproductive
acres. Curse that smell, it had got itself into his nose;
yes, but where did it come from? that was the question!
Why had he thought that it gave him importance to
wrap himself round with a cloak of mystery? Why, oh
why, had he been so secretive, so carefiil never to
answer their questions? He might have told them
about that farm, and about the time that had followed
in Paris when at last he had climbed to comparative
success, had amassed quite a tidy bundle of savings.
Savings? Where were they now . . . they were
gone. . . . Surely that was a strange sound near the
window? A sly sound like someone smothering a
cough ... a sly, choking sound . . . over there
near the window. But why had he invented that
ridiculous yarn about having come to Saint Loup for
his throat? Never in his life had he had tonsilitis.
He had told Madame Roustan that ridiculous yarn.
Had she believed it? Very probably not, in which
case she had doubtless resented the lie and was only
waiting to do him a mischief. And why had he ruined
B&edit, why had he not been more patient, more

378

subtle? As a stranger he had arrived in this town
and had ruined one of its most revered natives; an
unwise, a foolhardy thing to have done, which might
well result in his own destruction.

On and on would hammer those merciless thoughts,
those vain regrets, those hysterical terrors. He must
fling himself at the feet of the mayor and implore the
old man to give him protection — the mayor knew
quite well that he was no spy. Yes, but the mayor
knew other things also: they had wanted to make him,
Kahn, their mayor — perhaps the old man had felt
angry and jealous. He might even deliver him over
to be shot; people were shot as spies every day, even
women, and upon the slenderest suspicion. He must
leave Saint Loup quietly after the auction, must slip
out of the town before they could catch him. But
where could he go, he, a ruined man? He would get
no more help from those scoundrels in. Paris, and at
least he still had a roof over his head in Saint Loup,
and that was better than nothing. No shop would
sell quickly at such a time, and surely they would
hesitate to turn him adrift until it was sold? Edouard
•would not do that — perhaps he might ask to remain
as caretaker. No, he could not face tramping the
streets for employment; he had done it once many
years ago, but then he had been a strong youth from
•Alsace. Closing his eyes he could still feel the pain
of his boots as they rubbed on his blistered heels,
of his stomach as it seemed to devour its own entrails,
so famished had he been in those early days when he
tramped the Paris streets for employment. But now
he was soft and past middle-age — his skin had grown
soft and so had fos muscles. His feet ached if he went
for a really long walk. How old was he ... ? Bon
Dieu, he was nearly sixty; too late for a man to make
a fresh start, to go begging for work from door to
door — a man coifld not beg with distinction at sixtyl

379

On and on would hammer those merciless thoughts,
growing always more urgent but more bewildered as
Kahn listened and sniffed and longed for sleep, yet
feared to close his eyes for an instant. His aggressive
assurance had left him completely, he was now little
better than a deflated bladder. He could see only
destitution ahead, this in spite of the fact that never
in history had more jobs been open to men of his age
who were able and willing to make themselves useful.
Immense chagrin, humiliation and terror were com¬
bining to rob the man of his senses; no shell-shocked,
battle-torn wreck from the front could have been less
capable of clear thinking.

§3

Kahn never knew at what precise moment after
the auction he evolved the idea of going to see Jouse
B6i6dit, nor did he trouble to analyse his motive.
Was it a sudden belated desire to render the stricken
Jouse a service because Kahn had learnt what it felt
like to fail? Or was it partly self-preservation — the
wild hope that by serving the man he had harmed
he would gain some small measure of toleration?
Who shall answer, since all human motives are mixed
and are seldom more palatable for the mixing.

With bent head Kahn walked slowly away from the
port, away from the littered and empty shop with the
notice; ‘A Vendre’ pasted up on its windows, away
from the scene of his desolation. With bent head he
knocked on the Benedit’s door, then waited, not daring
to knock again so fearful was he anent his reception.

The door opened and Marie stood in the entrance;
‘You . . she breathed, ‘You, Kahn. . . .’ And
then she fell silent.

‘Yes,’ he muttered, ‘it is Kahn. I have something
to say ... I have something that I must say to
your husband.’

380

Marie stiffened: ‘I do not know what that can be,
but whatever it is you shall not say it. Ah, no, I will
not let you into this house in order that you may once
more insult J6us^. Never again shall you enter our
house.’ And she made to close the door in his face.
‘Enough misery you have brought us;’ she told him.

But at this Kahn thrust his foot through the door
with a sudden gesture of desperation: ‘Let me in!’
he clamoured; ‘I am here to bring help. I am here
to undo a very great wrong, I am here. . . .’

At that moment Christophe came from the work¬
shop.

Marie turned to him: ‘This man demand’s to come
in; he pretends that he wishes to offer us help, that
he now feels regret.’

‘Let him come,’ said Christophe.

Marie stared at her son, incredulous. and angry,
then she stood aside and allowed Kahn to pass her,
not knowing why she obeyed the boy, conscious
only that his gaze was resting upon her.

‘It is your father I want . . .’ faltered Kahn.

‘My father it is who wants you,’ answered Ghris-
tophe.

He led the way up the rickety stairs and into
Jouse’s comfortless bedroom: ‘Father, I have brought
Anatole Kahn. There is something he very much
wishes to tell you.’

Jous^ automatically tried to rise, as always when
he was agitated, but the effort failed and he lay
white and still. ‘Sit down, Anatole Kahn,’ he
mumbled.

Kahn puUed up a chair, and as he did so he was
conscious of a new and distressing sensation, for self-
pity is easier far to endure than the pity a man must
feel for another.

‘B^nedit . . .’ he stammered, ‘it is ... it is. . . .’

‘I think that my father.knows,’ said Christophe.

381

Then Kahn began to speak rather wildly: ‘B^n^dit,,
I am ruined, I have lost all my money, and moreover
I am hated and loathed in this town; not a soul but
whose hand is now turned against me. They pretend
that I am a German spy. Benedit, there is only one
man who can save me and that is a man whom I have
harmed. For his sake they may leave me in peace,
Benedit; they may leave me in peace if they know
I can help him. Ah, but will he do this thing . . .
will he forgive?’

Jouse said: ‘What is it you would have this man
do — this man whom you say you have harmed?’
And he waited.

Kahn edged his chair nearer: ‘I wordd have him
employ me. I would have him let me manage his
business; I would have him let me do what I can to
make it a going concern again. I would have him let
me work with my hands. . . .’

Jous^ frowned and his whole face suddenly darkened:
‘You to work with your hands!’ he exclaimed bitterly,
‘You who have wished to destroy all beauty; you who
have lived by soulless machines; is it likely that you
could work with your hands?’

Kahn answered: ‘And yet I was trained as a
joiner.’

In the pause that followed it seemed to Christophe
that the room was alive with conflicting emotions.
He could feel the despair of Anatole Kahn, the fear,
the remorse, the awakening of pity. He could feel
the resentment in Jouse’s heart, the rekindling of that
slow and terrible anger.

‘Ah,’ Jdus^ said thickly, ‘so you were of my trade;
very shameful indeed then was your betrayal.’

Christophe looked at his father, and as he did so
Jduse’s eyes must turn and meet those of his son;
slowly, reluctantly they must turn to be held as by
some relentless will that dominated and claimed his

382

whole being, that refused to permit of any escape — a
will whose strength lay in unquenchable mercY*
And neither of them marked the passing of time; it
might have been horns, it might have been rnoments
that they strove together this parent and child, eye
to eye, mind to mind in absolute silence. Then
Christophe sighed as though physically tired.

‘Z6u, I accept your offer;’ Jouse muttered.

And thus it was that the renegade Kahn came back
to the work he had long deserted; to the quiet, simple
and honest work of those who gain their Hving through
timber. Very gravely they consulted for over an
hour, deciding that Kahn should see what he could
do, assisted liierein by Christophe and Anfos, and
that meanwhile he should be given his food — this
imtil the profits had arrived at dimensions sufficient
for him to share them. And as they talked there came
upon J6us6 the peace which is only found in forgiving,
and that curious wish to protect and befriend the
creature whom one has at last forgiven, the creature
who because he has much received and is therefore
a debtor, confers a blessing.

Before Kahn left they told Marie his plans and his
hopes, and she seeing her husband’s face was greatly
amazed, for Jousd srmled as though he were very well
pleased and contented. And since his contentment
had always been hers Marie held out her hand to
Anatole Kahn:

‘Monsieur, you are very welcome,’ she said.

‘Madame, I am at your service,’ he answered.

Chapter xxxiv

§i

T he astonishing advent of Anatole Kahn marked
a turning point in the Benedit’s fortunes; it was
not very long before Christophe discovered that
Kahn was a thoroughly competent joiner. For awhile
he had seemed rather shy with lus tools as though
uncertain of regaining their friendship, and the tools,
in their turn, had rubbed his soft skin until his palms
were covered with blisters; blit a few weeb had set
all this to rights, so that now he gripped the chisel or
saw with the strength and complete assurance of an
expert — well grounded Kahn had been in his youth
before he deserted the carpenter’s bench to seek a
more lucrative career in Paris.

At first people refused to believe the news. What,
Anatole Kahn employed by Jous^! Anatole Kahn
taking charge of affairs on behalf of the man he had
set out to ruin! Incredible, preposterous; Jouse would
not consent to such an arrangement; it must be a lie.
And yet there was Kahn in Jouse’s own worbhop as
large as life, and with Christophe beside him, so that
finely they accepted the fact that many strange
things can happen in war-time. Then quite soon it
was even being said that if Anatole Kahn really did
know his job, Jouse might well have made a good
bargain; Christophe was young to assume full control
and, as everyone knew, Anfos was a half-wit. Oh,
that J6use! He was shrewd and no mistake; in losing
384

his legs he had not lost his shrewdness. Having found
.out that Kahn had been trained as a joiner he had
commandeered him to build up his business. It was
surely a case of the biter bit; a great scheme, and one
not devoid of humour. Well, well, they must see what
this joiner could do, this prophet who now worked
at a bench in his shirt-sleeves, this apostle of progress
who had meekly returned to the use of the hand-saw,
the plane and the hammer, this millionaire who
disdaining the sea as too common a thing, had
required a bathroom! And since even Death cannot
hope to destroy the endless daily needs of the living,
since anxiety cannot repair a back-door, and grief
cannot mend the leg of a table, and, moreover, since
many such necessary tasks had of late been either
forgotten or neglected, Kahn found himself suddenly
snowed under with orders, some of which were inspired
by curiosity, and some by an admiration for Jouse.
Oh, that Jousfe! He had just been biding his time;
the revenge was indeed unusually perfect! Gone were
his enemy’s smart northern clothes, his scarf-pin, his
rings and his opulent watch-chain, and in their
place was a soiled check shirt and a pair of cheap,
ready-made linen trousers.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur Kahn. Will you kindly come
round at once and repair the lid of our cesspool? It
is split and permits the stench to escape.’

‘Mais oui. Monsieur, I come on the instant.’

He would bow with his paunch bulging over his
belt, and his waxed moustache as stiff as a poker, and
his smile apparently quite self-assured, just as though
he had not been sold up for a bankrupt. That they
could not rile him was very annoying; stiU, they had to
admit that his work was satisfactory.

And indeed it was very remarkable to observe how
Anatole Kahn kept his temper, how completely he
managed to shed his grand air whUe appearing

BB 385

neither down-hearted nor humble. The truth was
that he felt so immense a relief at finding himself
in comparative safety, that he cared not a pin for
dieir childish jeers which could neither roast him alive
nor shoot him. Every morning he arrived at the
B^nedit’s house in time for coffee and a slice of dry
bread; every night he returned to the Galaxies Kahn
which, except for his bedroom, were deserted and
empty. Thanks to Edouard, he was allowed to stay
on until such time as the place was disposed of. Yes,
but now when he went to his bed he slept, and that
sleep seemed to him like a boon from heaven as it
came flooding peacefully over his mind, great waves
of it, waves upon waves of sleep, until consciousness
lay submerged by oblivion. On awaking lus rnind
would feel placid yet vital, no longer submitting to
thoughts of failure, so that while he shaved he would
think of new schemes whereby he could help himself
and Jouse:

Ts it likely that I cannot win through!’ he would
exclaim to the soap-daubed face that looked out of
the mirror.

His first scheme was to bait harmless traps for the
wounded who would frequently stand staring into the
workshop. He and Christophe made cigarette boxes
of oak on which Anfos was set to carve popular
generals from their pictures that Kahn cut out of
the papers. The generals were crude but then so
were the times; the boxes were simple but then so
were the wounded. Cigarette cases followed with
great success; upon these there appeared the flags of
die Allies which le tout petit Loup embellished with
paint. Since his earliest childhood he had been neat-
fingered and now he spent hours with a box of oil-
paints which Kahn had ordered for him from Mar-
I seilie. Every evening he coloured the Allied flags;
his brows knit, the tip of his tongue protruding:

3S.6

‘Do not joggle my arm, clumsy animal ! And stop
breathing warm wetness into my ear; it distracts me,’
he would scold at the spell-bound Christophe.

There were also wooden blotters having views of
Saint Loup, for Anfos must cease from his carving of
dreams and content himself with the peaks of the
Maures, and with ships that sailed upon earthly waters.
And pin-trays there were, and photograph frames
together with other gifts suitable for ladies, so that he
who possessed the requisite price could send a souvenir
to his sweetheart. The entire collection was neatly
displayed upon trestle-tables set out in the roadway.
But one morning Anfos abruptly remembered the
crucifix he had made for the Cure, and he started to
carve many littie Christs from fragments of wood that
Kahn had discarded —with incredible speed he
carved little Christs, then nailed them on to their
miniature crosses. And as he did this he moaned and
wept, keeping up a perpetual loud lamentation,
flinching each time he adjusted a nail and tapped it
lightly in place with his mallet.

‘Ail paure pichounet, ai! ail’ he moaned, as though
he lamented over a baby.

Kahn became impatient, but Christophe whispered
that he must not try to coerce the apprentice lest this
fit of madness grow more acute: Tt is that he wishes to
dream,’ explained Christophe, ‘and that when we will
not permit him to dream he tries to hide himself from
us with God; but to-day he is finding God very sad.’

Anfos looked up with red-rimmed eyes: ‘God is
always sad, as you know,’ he told Christophe.

After all, the crucifixes sold well; quite a number
of wounded soldiers bought them: ‘Dis done, les
petits crucifix . . . combien?’ And having been
informed, they would finger them shyly. Then: ‘Alors
. . . oui.’ And off they would go with their pur¬
chases tucked away in their pockets.

387

But Anatole Kahn had larger ideas than this
making of what he considered mere trifles. Why not
visit the convalescent home and offer to work for the
patriotic lady? Through her he might hear of other
such homes, having first obtained her recommendation.
So what must he do but tramp off to the chateau, and
having arrived there become so insistent that the lady
he sought hurried into the hall, demanding the cause
of such loud conversation.

‘Ah, Madame,’ explained Kahn, ‘I am here to
entreat that you will accord me a brief interview.’
And he handed her one of the battered old cards that
J6us^ had used upon rare occasions.

‘B^nddit . . .’ she said thoughtfully; ‘Benedit. Mais
oui, I think I have heard about him. Surely his
case is terribly sad? Did I not hear that he was
paralysed?’ And her face became very solicitous, for
she was kind-hearted as well as patriotic.

Kahn sighed; ‘Paralysed, as you say, Madame;
paralysed, with a wife and two children to keep.’
Then he quickly explained how essential it was that
for Jouse’s sake she should give him employment:
‘Aready one child is so fragile,’ he went on, ‘that a
puff of wind would blow him to heaven; he cannot
digest our coarse peasant food, a mere mouthful and
he immediately vomits, yet how gentle, how patient,
how resigned he is. . . .’

‘But what sort of work can you do?’ she asked.

‘Amost anything Madame requires,’ he said boldly.
‘I make back-rests for those who need such supports,
and cradles for those who have injured legs, and strong
litde tables that take the place of trays — very usefiil
when a man must have meals in bed. Yes, all manner
of comforts I make for our heroes. Perhaps, also,
Madame would consider a shelter, a charming shelter
out there in the sunshine. Ah, Madame, what a haven
of peace that would be!’

388

Siie smiled: ‘But, Monsieur, we have many
shelters.’

‘Yet I feel that Madame requires just one more,’
he coaxed. ‘I can see its exact position!’

The end of it was that she gave him an order for a
couple of back-rests and three bed-tables: ‘It is true,’
she admitted, ‘that we need several things, and the
transport grows always more difficult. Perhaps I will
ask you to build that new shelter, but first you must
let me judge of your w'ork — you will naturally have
to work to our patterns.’

Kahn thanked her, then bowed himself humbly
away, but his face was flushed and his eyes bright
with triumph.

And so in addition to cigarette boxes, pin-trays and
the like, Jouse Benedit’s workshop began to produce
quite a number of objects that the kind-hearted lady
required for her patients; and since she was very well
satisfied Kahn obtained his much-longed-for recom¬
mendation. All day might be heard the sound of the
saw and the rhythmical tapping of hammer and
mallet; all day might be heard the sound of Kahn’s
voice as he lustily shouted for this and that tool, or
sang some lively song of the cafes. And all day Jduse,
hearing these cheerful sounds, must lie on his bed and
ponder deeply:

‘Surely,’ he pondered, ‘God’s ways are most strange,
yet most kind.’ And then he would talk to God, but
familiarly, using the Provencal tongue as though he
spoke with some well-loved friend towards whom he
had every cause to feel grateful.

§2

At about this time Kahn began to pay board from
his share of the sum realized at the auction. It was
not a large sum, since owing to the war there had been

389 ‘

a very meagre attendance; there had also been the
question of depreciation. The bulk of the stock had
been bought by a man from Marseille representing
the Gal cries Bleues—people said he had got it for
practically nothing. Still, after Kahn had settled his
debts to the townsfolk there was certainly money left
over, for he calmly ignored the obvious claims of La
Societe Fonciere du Midi.

‘Let them go to the devil,’ he remarked; and then
grinned, remernbering the incalculable sea, ‘they are
welcome to take my land with them,’ he added.

Not quite honest? Perhaps not. But now Anatole
Kahn had become enamoured of his repentance. He
could see little else save Jouse’s need and his own
obligation to build up the business. The Societe, he
argued, was rolling in wealth and could quite well
afford a doubtful venture, therefore why pay it interest
out of his funds which, in any case, would be quickly
exhausted? Like most enthusiasts Anatole Kahn saw
only his latest enthusiasm, its predecessors appearing
as ^oss when compared with the inspiration of the
moment; but then, after all, he was not alone since
even the righteous have limited vision. So now as well
as paying his board he bought many new tools that
were badly needed; some more delicate than those
that Jouse had used, some more up to date and thus
more convenient. He also purchased a brand-new
bench, wishing Christophe to have the use of his
father’s, and that, for him, was a great courtesy which
let us assume was remarked on in heaven. Oh, yes,
he was doubtless making his soul, though with some¬
what less skill than he made bed-tables.

Sometimes Jouse protested that Kahn was too
generous, that indeed he was far exceeding their
bargain. But Kahn knew very well how die profits
had grown: ‘That is nonsense,’ he said; ‘I shall pay
myself back in less than a year; I know what I have

390

spent.’ And with this Jdus^ must perforce be con¬
tented.

As for Marie she accepted it all thankfully, not
daring to question, for le tout petit Loup could once
again have his jellies and bouillon, jlt was never safe
to talk of good luck; better light many candles to
one’s patron saint and leave the rest to God’s under¬
standing.

But Jan did not share Marie’s superstitions, and he
openly rejoiced; ‘Christophe you grow fat; your face
is becoming as round as the moon!’ Then all of a
sudden he hugged his cousin. And because his mind
was so greatly relieved Jan prayed with renewed
enthusiasm — he had started the Thirty Days Prayer
for Kahn lest he fail in this new role of benefactor.

Even the cross-grained Eusebe accepted Kahn as a
necessary evU, that was when he thought about him
at all, for just lately his thoughts had become occupied
by another and far more interesting person. ^Eliana,
his granddaughter, occupied his thoughts, for now
at long last he was forced to concede the claim which
the years pressed so heavily on him —that lustful
black eye had been growing dim, and he trembled,
remembering old Mathilde who he knew had been
threatened with total blindness. He would often
come wandering over to Marie and work on a pair
of sandals in her kitchen, adjusting the soles and the
thongs by feel, since his sight was sometimes too
blurred to see them. And while he did this he mxxst
tailk and talk about his own youth and his only
daughter who, like Germaine, had borne a posthu¬
mous child, but who had given her life in the process.

‘ValavalKco,’ Eusebe would growl, as he spat on
his fingers and coaxed the leather, ‘there are things
in this world that one cannot forget — the things that
one does not wish to remember. Very old she became
in those terrible hours, and the doctor nothing less

391

than a cretin. And no woman — so suddenly did it
occm. And then to die like any stray bitch who must
have her litter of pups in the gutter. . . .’

Amazing it was to hear his tongue wag, to hear him
revealing undreamed of emotions: the fear he had felt
at the sight of the corpse, the resentment he had felt
at the sight of the baby; ‘So I sent her away to some
peasants in the hills,, and afterwards to the sisters at
Arles. Houi, it all seems like only last week, and yet
iEliana is nearly twenty.’ And then he must start to
excuse himself: ‘What would you, Marie, my wife
was dead — there was no one, and I could not dandle
an infant! Moreover the sisters are excellent souls,
even nuns may sometimes have practical uses. Then
again, I paid well, I have always paid well, even
nuns are not averse from good money. I said: “You
may do as you please with this bundle, you may
teach it to play with beads if you wish, or to bob up
and down like a Jack-in-the-box; it is really all one,
I care nothing;” I said, “only do not expect me to
come here again; I am not an expert in colic or
croup, and moreover I am terribly frightened of
measles.” Santouno, but the Reverend Mother
looked shocked! However, I promptly opened my
purse for I knew that its contents wotild soothe her
feelings.’

In this vein Eusebe would ramble on while Marie
busied herself with her cooking. Half indignant, half
sorry for him she would feel as he rubbed his eye with
a grimy hand that could certainly not improve its
condition.

‘Tell me, what does .Eliana look like?’ she once asked,
for she knew that he had been to Arles to see her.

‘She resembles Ceres,’ Eusebe replied, so that
naturally Mzuie was none the wiser.

Then one evening he said: ‘She has been learning to
dress-make, and next week she will take a situation

392

that the sisters have found her; she goes as lady’s
maid to a chateau that is only twelve kilometres from
here. I am glad, for now that the girl is grown up
I sometimes desire to have her near me.’

Marie thought: ‘A fine pig-sty she will find if
she comes! But she will not endure it very long,
I imagine.’ Aloud she said: ‘Then you must clean
up your house; if you wish I can find you some
woman to help.’

‘Thank you,’ he replied to her great surprise; I
would like the house to be neat for iEliana.’

The thought of her seemed to haunt him these
days. When Marie had driven him out of the kitchen
because she was waiting to scrub the tiles, he would
hobble away in search of Christophe; and if Christophe
was too busy just then to attend, he would hobble
upstairs and sit with Jouse.

‘Di^u,’ Jous^ would mumble, ‘for twenty years you
have left her completely ignored and uncared for, yet
now you can talk of no one else — I begin to think
that the girl has bewitched you! However, I am glad
that you went to Arles; I consider that you have
been very neglectful.’ And unless he was feeling his
rheumatism, Eusebe would accept such rebukes quite
mildly.

But once back in his home his mood might change,
whereupon he would make an outlandish commotion;
whacking his bedding, or banging his floors with a
broom that was losing most of its bristles; and then
he would suddenly empty his slops and his filthy
water out of the window.

‘Be off! Do not get in my way!’ he would bawl at
some splashed and highly indignant pedestrian.

And Jous^, hearing the hubbub must smile: ‘Now
he grows very angry with me,’ he would think; ‘ah,
well there are compensations it seems — I am glad
I escaped the contents of that bucket!’

393

Chapter xxxv

§i

' 'T was not many months before Eusebe obtained his
^desire in regard to Uliana. One evening during
the following May she arrived, having left her
situation:

‘You will now have to keep me for awhile,’ she
announced; ‘I am going to look for work in Toulon. I
think I shall try to find work at some shop; I have had
quite enough of domestic service.’ And she plumped
her small valise down on a stool. ‘Ah, mais oui, I
have had quite enough,’ she repeated.

Eusebe was certainly taken aback by this sudden
visit, and yet he was flattered: ‘You can stay just as
long as you please,’ he declared; ‘to-morrow I will see
about cleaning your bedroom — it is not very grand
but that you must forgive.’ And he peered rather
anxiously at the girl, subjugated by her unusual
beauty.

Tall and deep-bosomed she stood before him,
making the shop seem even more squalid, making her
own humble clothes look strange in conjunction with
so superb a body. The curves of her breasts were
generous and firm as though fashioned to soothe and
sustain creation, the long lines of her limbs were
supple yet strong, her head small and well poised, her
lips full and ardent, her dark eyes flecked viith elusive
lights that at times made the eyes themselves appear
golden. For the rest her glossy black hair waved low

394

on a wide and unusually placid brow — the brow and
the mouth were a contradiction. But Eusebe saw the
girl as a whole, saw only a creature who seemed to
belong to an age when men carved the lovely immor¬
tals, and the blood throbbed with pride through his
agM veins, since was he not in part her begetter?

‘My seed she has sprung from, my seed!’ he thought,
continuing to peer at ^Eliana.

And so- he believed the improbable story of ill-
treatment and hardship which she presently told him;
believed that the staff had been meanly fed, over¬
worked, and the prey of their mistress’s temper. Be¬
lieved iEliana’s grapliic account of the terrible scene
that Madame had made because her nightgown had
shrunk in the washing;

‘It was common and therefore it would not wash;
all her things were like that, she is rich but a screw.
However, when she threatened to box my ears . . . .’

‘You came running to grandp^re,’ he said fatuously,
‘and quite right to come running home to your
grandpere.’

‘Yes, as you say ... I came home,’ she answered.

But when Eusebe, now thoroughly roused, declared
that he would visit her mistress and demand an
immediate redress for these wrongs, ^Eliana turned on
him, speaking sharply: ‘You will not. You will kindly
leave her alone!’

‘Bien, bien, that must be as you -wish,’ he acquiesced;
‘it was only for your sake, but if you say no. . . .’

‘Most emphatically I do,’ she retorted.

Just for a moment he felt suspicious. Was there
something that she was hiding from him? Some
matter that she did not wish him to sift? Then he
shrugged the unwelcome suspicion away: ‘Come,
I will show you your room,’ he said quickly.

Thus it happened that jEliana arrived at Saint
Loup in the month of plentiful cherries, in the month

395

when green almonds swell on their boughs, in the
month when the sea is perhaps at its bluest, in the
month when the mingled scents of the maquis on the
Tiills most strangely disturb the senses. In this month
of our Lady, ^Eliana arrived, more akin to the pagan
things of the earth than she was to the gentle-faced
Christian Virgin,

§2

Many people were curious about ^Eliana’s arrival,
but this only very mildly. In peace-time they would
probably have been all agog, but by now their minds
were growing war-weary. She had come to look after
Eusebe, they supposed, and they pitied her for having
so thaiikless a task; then they read the latest news
from the front, discussed it, and promptly forgot
about her. However, perhaps it was only natural
that Jan and Christophe should prove the exceptions;
they were frankly interested in this girl whose existence
had become a kind of legend.

‘Let us call and pay our respects,’ suggested Jan;
and since Christophe agreed, they called upon her.

They found her alone, Eusebe having taken himself
off for his usual drink at la Tarasque, and after
siuveying them critically she invited them into the
seldom-used parlour.

‘Here all is filth as you observe,’ she remarked,
‘but sit down, that is if you can find two whole chairs!
My grandfather grows incredibly helpless; I must get
a woman to clean up this mess.’ And somehow it
did not strike them as odd that she herself had not
done the cleaning.

They were awkward and shy, finding little to say,
for neither of them was accustomed to women;
moreover iEliana seemed a creature apart — they
had never, imtil now, seen anyone like her. But

396

iEliana was - quite at her ease as she let her eyes
dwell thoughtfully upon Christophe.

She said; ‘My grandfather talks much about you,
he is always talking about your great strength—are
your muscles as fine as he would have one believe?’
Christophe went scarlet, not knowing what to answer.
‘I have always admired great strength,’ srruled
iEliana.

He found this intensely embarrassing, and was
suddenly conscious that his nails were dirty. He had
tried very hard to remove the stains of furniture
polish but had not succeeded, so that now he looked
unhappUy down at his nails.

‘But yes, he is strong like a bullock!’ bragged Jan.

‘You are strong, you also,’ said Christophe quickly.

How unusual they were, so virginal, so simple, and
then so fiercely loyd to each other. She had quickly
divined this loyalty of theirs and she found it rather
absiurd yet intriguing; moreover life was none too gay
at the moment, so she said:

‘Tell me, what can one do in the evenings?’

They looked at her, feeling rather nonplussed:
‘One can walk on the hills if one wishes;’ Christophe
told her; ‘it is cool when one walks on Ae hills after
work.’

‘Ah, but I am so timid,’ sighed iEliana, ‘and yet
there is much that I long to see; many places round
here must be of great interest . •. . my poor grand¬
father finds himself terribly lame.’

‘If you wish we will accompany you,’ Jan said
politely.

‘That would be entirely charming,’ she answered.

Then Christophe remembered Goundran’s small
boat — Goundran had given him permission to use it:
‘Perhaps, Mademoiselle, you would care for a row?
Jan rows well, he rows much better than I do; however,
we both of us make quite good speed. There are

397

several nice places along this coast . . For he did
not wish to fail in politeness.

And so it fell out that before they left they had
planned quite a number of little excursions: they would
walk up to Eusebe’s vineyards, they would show her
the old citadel by moonlight, they would take her to a
certain olive grove where Saint Loup was reputed to
have slain many pagans; these and several other
excursions they had planned before leaving — some¬
what to their own amazement.

‘Do we like her, Christophe?’ Jan enquired later.

‘I am not quite sure . . .’ Qiristophe said doubt¬
fully.

‘Is she beautiful, do you think?’ questioned Jan.

‘She is very beautiful,’ answered Christophe.

§3

After all it was pleasant to befriend iEliana who
complained that her life was intolerably lonely;
pleasant also to feel tliat she liked them so much, that
mdeed she was growing dependent upon them — this
dependence of hers had a charm all its own, for it
flattered their timid, self-conscious manhood.

‘I had meant to find work at once,’ she told Jan,
‘but I cannot desert my half-blind grandfather. Ah,
no, I must stay with him till the end.’

And this remark Jan passed on to the Cure: ‘Is
it not noble of her, mon pere!’

The Cure did not answer immediately, then he said:
‘We all have our duties, my son;’ and Ms prominent
eyes glanced sharply at his pupil. He was tMnking:
‘It is foolish to interfere, if I do he may take the bit
between Ms teeth. Better wait and watch — so far
all seems well.’ Then he sighed, feeling youth to be
a terrible problem.

Madame Roustan, however, was not so tactful and
must nag until Jan flew into a temper: ‘Is it her fault

398

that Eus^be gets drunk? You are very unjust to judge
her by him —I consider it a great lacK of charity!
Moreover, I am no longer a child, therefore kindly
permit me to know my own business.’

Marie said to Jouse: ‘This .lEliana; of course I do
all that I can to befriend her for I really pity her,
the poor girl — imagine living wi:jh that dirty old
drunkard! But sometimes I am a little afraid. I ask
myself sometimes: is she good?’

Jous^ looked tenderly at his wife: ‘I do not know
if iEliana is good, but I fear she is inevitable, my
Marioun.’

‘Why?’ she faltered.

But he had not the heart to explain. Ai! las, these
poor mothers who having bred sons were so apt to
forget that they grew into men. ‘Do not worry, we can
trust our son. . . .’ he consoled her.

Anfos frankly detested .Uliana and whenever they
met he made faces at her: ‘Go away! Go away! Go
away!’ he would squeal; ‘Do not touch me!’ And then
he would start grimacing. At such times even Chris-
tophe could not control him, for Anfos refused to
listen to reason.

Kahn thought her appearance distinctly attractive
but his mind was engrossed by affairs of business;
moreover he was earning the requisite price of a visit
now and again to Saint Raphael.

Only the impudent tout petit Loup expressed a
supreme and disdainful indifference: ‘P6u! what is she?
Just a girl like the rest. I have never found much to
choose between them. As for me, I cannot be
bothered these days.’ Whereupon he would roll a
small cigarette with the air of one who had seduced
many virgins.

Meanwhile the spring drifted into the summer, and
the sun became always more insistent, and the nights
more fervent from the heat of the days, while the

399

moon came up red and preposterously large, making
a red-gold path on the water. Idle and ripe for love
were these nights, and idle and ripe for love was
iEliana, a creature of rich blood and urgent desires,
untamed, unregenerate and unabashed, despite those
chastening years at the convent; moreover she had
now certain memories which served to strengthen the
urge that was in her. Looking at Christophe as he bent
to his oars or strode beside her on the hills of an
evening, his luminous eyes seeming strangely aloof,
iEliana would greatly desire and yet hate him.

‘He cannot be human,’ she would think bitterly
when he failed to respond to the touch of her hand, to
the nearness of her provocative body.

And then he must constantly have Jan at his heels
like a watch-dog; it was childish and irritating.
Seldom could she manage to get them apart; together
they had found her and now they shared her, blissfully
unconscious, or so it appeared, of the fact that this
filled her with deep resentment. And yet iEliana
sometimes thought that Jan would have been a less
arduous conquest, this despite his grave talk about
entering the Church.

‘I could have him if I so wished,’ she would think,
‘but I do not want him — I want the other.’ Then
those full, ardent lips and that placid brow would seem
more than ever a contradiction.

One evening she remarked: T am tired of the hills;
let us drink a small glass of wine at the caf^.’ For
as .^iana knew, wine can go to the heart as well as
the head if the gods be propitious.

They hesitated, greatly abashed. Had they got the
price of the wine in their pockets? No matter, M^e
Melanie knew them both and would doubtless allow
them to pay the next morning. Surreptitiously they
examined their cash and found that they could muster
five francs between them.

400

At la Tarasque they came on Eus^be dead drunk
but sleeping the blissful sleep of the uhrighteous: _‘Do
not let us sit near him, when he drinks he perspires,
and when he perspires he stinks,’ said Uliana.

The rest of the tables were mostly taken by young¬
sters on leave and bent upon frolic. One observed
iEliana and promptly made eyes: ‘Bon-vespre, ma
bello fadeto!’ he shouted.

She smiled at him, not ill-pleased it appeared.

‘It were better to ignore them,’ cautioned Jan.

‘And you, Christophe, what do you say?’ she asked.

Christophe glanced at his sun-tanned, muscular
arms: ‘That I do not think they will molest you,’ he
answered.

She was thinking: ‘He is only seventeen, yet so tall,
so strong —why will he not love me!’ And suddenly
her eyes filled with angry tears.

‘Moun tout, ma bello!’ cried the youngster on leave,
lifting his glass with mock gallantry. iEliana shrugged
her shoulders and ignored him.

They sat down and Christophe ordered wine, but
when it arrived he drank it coupe. Jan did not,
preferring to drink his neat, which however he did
with a certain precaution. Neither of them could
dance it appeared, though the little violinist was in
excellent fettle. A nice couple of boobies to take a
girl out.

‘But what can you do?’ she enquired peevishly.

‘The Germans will very soon know!’ Jan informed
her.

.Eliana looked bored: ‘I am tired of the war. Why
discuss the war when we came here for pleasure?’
Her cheeks were now faintly flushed, her eyes
brilliant, and taking the bottle she refilled her glass,
‘Since no one has the good manners . . .’ she said
frowning. Presently she groped for Christophe’s hand
and held it in hers but not for long; she dared not
cc 401

risk holding his hand too lon)^, feeling certain that if
she did so she would scare him. Yet she could not
force back the words that now rose to her lips in their
own soft Provengal language; ‘Tu lou souleu de ma
jouvengo.’ Very gently .Uliana murmured those
words, while she thought; ‘I am calling him the sun
of my youth, that is what I am calling him — how will
he answer?’

He answered quite simply; ‘Migo — my^ friend.’
But Jan, who had heard her, grew curiously silent.

Alone at a table just across the room sat a person
very elegantly apparelled. He was wearing an open-
necked white silk shirt, a green cummerbund and
tussore silk trousers. By his side stood a heavy ebony
cane whose jade handle matched his jade cigarette-
case. And this person had been staring for quite a
long time while he smoked, drinking glass after glass
of cognac which apparently left him as sober as a
judge and as coldly critical — it was Beauvais. Oh,
yes, it was Beauvais come back from the wars with a
lung that a swallow of gas had injured, with a leg so
shattered and badly repaired that never again would
France need his service, with a mind half outraged
and half amused by the yarns with which nations
must dope their victims, but with hands that could
still hold a palette and brush to some purpose, and
with eyes that could still judge a woman.

Beauvais had said to himself; ‘Why not? And
this time I think I will stay at la Tarasque. After all
I may build that sacre mas with the garden running
down to the sea and a pergola on which to grow
grape-vines. Qjnte a good proposition for a wounded
hero who has certainly earned his place in the sun!
Anyhow I will take a look at my land.’ And so here
he was, breathing none too well while he smoked and
drank and stared at iEliana.

After awhile he got to his feet, helping himself
402

with the edge of the table upon which he must lean
while he grabbed for his cane. The leg that was badly
repaired hung crooked, nor could he put that heel to
the ground. The surgeon had been nervous for Beau¬
vais had screamed, only once but that once had been
more than enough for the surgeon —they had run
out of anaesthetics.

Limping grotesquely but quite imperturbed he
made his way through the dancers to Christopher
‘Pardon, Monsieur, my name is Jacques Beauvais.
Am I not addressing Monsieur Benedit? Surely I
saw you some years ago when your father erected a
fence round my land? But permit me to say that you
have grown somewhat.’ And he laughed his pleasant
and youthful laugh. ‘Monsieur, you make me feel
like a pigmy.’

Christophe had stood up and was ofi’ering him a
chair which Beauvais accepted; then he ordered more
brandy. Four brandies he ordered as a matter of
course: ‘Unless Mademoiselle would prefer something
else?’

‘Mais non, this will do, I thank you,’ she smiled,
looking into his bloodshot amorous eyes.

‘Then permit me to drink to our meeting,’ he
answered.

After this he must try to put the youths at their
ease by talking to them about local matters. He had
heard that that fellow Kahn had failed; what a villain
with his Galeries of abortions! So now he was working
for the Benedits; amazing that he could work with
those hands — every finger had bulged like a fat
white sausage: ‘Your father has had a stroke? What
a disaster! I remember him so clearly with his bright,
cxirly beard. I used to think that he looked like Saint
Paul—or was it someone else who had such a beard?
In any case he looked like an apostle. And your
mother, is she well in spite of her troubles? That is

403

good; she must be a courageous woman.^ I saw her the
morning I called at your workshop; kindly give my
compliments to your mother. By the way, if I do
build that villa of mine I shall ask you to make me
some strong oak cupboards. So your cousin is about
to enter the Church?’

‘But first I will enter the army!’ exclaimed Jan,
‘I will serve my God by serving my country I’ His voice
sounded truciilent and thick, he was unused to spirits
and was feeling the brandy.

Beauvais nodded: ‘We all know how much God
loves the French, but then he apparently also loves
the Germans. One becomes a little bewildered at
times; however. . . .’

‘Do I understand you to mean. . . .’ began Jan.

‘Monsieur, you do not,’ Beauvais smiled.

‘Ah, bon, I am glad of that!’ said Jan loudly.

And meanwhile Beauvais’ bloodshot, amorous eyes
must keep dwelling on iEliana’s face and bosom. He
addressed her seldom except with his eyes, having
quickly divined that she understood him. And seeing
diose all but articulate glances, those long ardent
looks, Jan was suddenly seized by a feeling of uncon¬
trollable fury, so that the blood pounded in his head,
so that he must dig his nails into his palms to stop
himself from striking Beauvais’ pale face, while his
own eyes turned hungrdy to the girl, perceiving the
fullness and meaning of her beauty. And so great
was the shock of tos sexual uprush, this abrupt
desire to possess a woman, that his entrails seemed to
be gripped in a vice; for a moment he felt giddy and
wanted to vomit. Nor could he remember the simplest
prayer, but must just sit staring at iEliana.

She noticed it of course, what woman would not?
But her thoughts were concentrated on Christophe.
Ah, now he could see how much she was desired . . .
Beauvais, the wealthy, the celebrated artist. . . -

404

What a scarecrow he was with his twisted leg, all the
same he might very well serve her purpose. , r

She glanced at Christophe, expectant, delight^,
half whore and half child in her obvious elati^hp
‘Christophe, tu es tellement beau — tellement beau''
avec ton clair regard,’she whispered‘Christophe . .

But he seemed to be very far away. His face looked
puzzled and rather anxious as though he were trying
to recapture the thread of something that he only
imperfectly remembered.

Beauvais took his leave, and when he had gone they
also got up and left the caf^. Between them the
cousins paid for the wine.

‘Let us walk a little way out of the town; it is hot
to lie in our beds,’ said .Uliana, ‘and besides I am
feeling very wide awake.’ She was t h i nki ng: ‘I will
tell him now about Louis; not quite all, ga non, but
enough, just enough.’ Aloud she said: ‘I have some¬
thing to confess; a long time I have wished to make
this confession.’

But lEliana delayed her confession until they
had left the houses behind them and were sitting
upon a low wayside bank. They could see the black
masterful curves of the Maures rising superbly
towards a sky that was pale and opalescent with
moonlight.

Then she said: ‘You shall be my father confessors,
you shall listen and give me your absolution. Chris¬
tophe—Jan—I have told a very big falsehood in order
to spare your Eusebe. I did not tell him the truth
when I came here; I lied about leaving my situation.

I did not leave, Madame turned me out. Her dear son
Louis had come back from the front and was staying
at the ch&teau with his wife — she was pretty, his wife;
they had not long been married. Ma fbi, she was
pretty enough to content him, but no, he must take
a fancy to me, must always be wanting to to me

405

behind doors, to pursue me when I went into the
garden to pick flowers for his mother’s dressing-table.
Ah, bon Dieu, what a man! Half crazy he was be¬
cause I would not accept his advances. No, but never
had I conceived of such passion as his. . .

‘Why must you tell us these things?’ Jan muttered.

She glanced sideways: ‘Be patient, they are part
of my confession — when you are a priest you will
hear many others. No, never had I conceived of such
passion. His wife suspected, but what could I do?
I could not reveal his perfidy to her. Alas, the poor
thing, I would find her in tears and many a time I
would long to comfort. Mais oui, he was handsome,
I will not deny it, but so brutal, a beast, he would
look like a beast. Do you think that perhaps all men
are beasts when women deny them?’

They did not answer.

iEliana paused, then went on more quickly: ‘The
end came when he followed me into her bedroom.
I had gone there to put away her clothes, and quite
suddenly I turned roimd and saw him — he could walk
very quietly when he wished. I wanted to scream but
I felt too frightened. Ah, mes amis, he pushed me
down on the bed, his wife’s bed, but I fought like a
tiger, I bit him! Then a fearful thing happened: his
wife came in and foimd us . . . like that. Eh bien,
I was dismissed: they refused to believe my explana¬
tion. But I feared to tell my grandfather the truth
because he is old and half blind, yet so violent. He
would surely have wanted to kill that man. Ah, well,
now you know and I am relieved that you should;
I have always hated the deception.’

Jan was white to the lips; white and trembling he
sat not daring to look at .iEliana, not daring to trust
himself to speak. Then he suddenly turned his face
away, fearful lest Christophe should read its expression.
But Christophe had stooped and was moving his

406

finger on the path as though he were writing in the
dust — very thoughtfully he was moving his finjger.

iEliana stared; ‘Christophe, stop!’ she exclaimed,
‘Why are you so strange? I find you most strange. . . .*
He sprang up: ‘No, no! Do not say that, .lEliana!
It was nothing at all . . . but just for a moment . . .
never mind, it has passed.’ His voice shook with the
fear that since her coming he had almost forgotten.

She frowned angrily: ‘Let us return,’ she said, ‘I am
sick of you both; you behave like children.’

Chapter xxxvi

J AN Stood in front of the Cure. He was saying:

‘Mon p^re, I beg of you, let me enlist. I am over
seventeen, and if 1 enlist I shall get right away from
here and find peace.’

But the Cure shook his head: ‘No, my son, it is not
by such means that you will find peace. Peace comes
only to those who have conquered themselves; if you
go now you will not have conquered yourself and the
thing that you fear will still be a torment. You must
face it and wrench it out of your heart. You must
trust to the efficacy of prayer.’ He paused, remember¬
ing his own bitter youth. Did Jan know the complete¬
ness of his understanding? Of course not; how should
he? And these platitudes. . . . ‘You have courage,’
he went on rather desperately; ‘Our Lord always
needs the brave in His service.’ Then his voice shook
a little: ‘Ah, my child —my dear child. . . .’ For
the father in him was deeply distressed, was deeply
moved by commiseration; ‘Jan, listen to me, I do
understand, and when you are eighteen you will go
like the rest; it is surely not long to wait, have patience,
and meanwhile stay here and fight the good fight —
there are so many ways of being courageous!’

Jan bowed his head: ‘As you will, mon p^e.’

But his fierce black eyes looked hot and resentful,
and observing this the Cure must sigh: ‘It is not as I
will but as God wills,’ he told him. ‘Let us go into
408

the Chvirch; we will pray there awhile.’ And he laid
a thin hand on his pupil’s arm.

Jan nodded, but his eyes were still resentful.

♦ * ♦

That night the Cur6 sat huddled in his chair; he was
feeling old and unusually tired: T am nearly seventy
now,’ he thought; ‘it is therefore quite natural that I
shoxild fed old.’ But he knew that it was not the passing
of the years that caused him to sit huddled up in his
chair; rather was it a doubt that harassed his soul.
‘And yet I have acted wisely;’ he argued, ‘I cannot
allow him to go until I must. It is surely my duty to
keep the boy near me at this the most critical juncture
of his life. Who will guard him from spiritual harm
if he goes while these fleshly longings are so heavy
upon him?’

Yet he dared not look into his aching heart, dared
not face the real fear that lay in that heart together
with the weU-nigh hopeless hope that when Jan was
eighteen the war would be over. Madame de Berac’s
only son had been killed. It was strange how this
happening had brought things home. A young man
whom the Cure had never seen had been killed, God
knew how, in some distant battle, and all of a sudden
that man had been Jan, and the battlefield the Cure’s
own study.

On the following Sunday he had preached very
badly: ‘He was dull this morning,’ people had
grumbled, missing the violence he had taught them to
expect, ‘mais oui, that sermon was more like the old
days.’ They had felt defrauded, almost resentful,
for the Cure’s war-sermons were now quite well
known: there were those who would come several
miles to hear them.

The Cure got up and stood lost in thought, rubbing
his chin and puckering his forehead, V^at had he

409

done with the silver rood — the Bona-Mors rood that
had been his mother’s? He had put it away (^uite
safely, of course, but he could not remember precisely
where. How strange to forget so important a thing;
and he needed it now against Jan’s going. In the past
he had always worn it himself, but as time went on
he had found it a burden. It had been so inconveniently
large — just over six inches the cross had measured —
and heavy, its weight had irked his neck; but now he
must find that old silver rood blessed for a holy death
by some saint — a saint whose name he had also
forgotten.

The Cur6 began to ransack his cupboards, growing
always more careless with agitation as he ploughed his
way through the rubbish of years that his indolence
had unwittingly hoarded. With trembling hands he
thrust things aside or flung them down on his study
floor: ‘I cannot have lost my mother’s rood. Ah, but
no, I cannot!’ he kept repeating.

In the end he found it at the bottom of a chest under
three or four pairs of moth-eaten socks, a tobacco
pouch, zind a worn-out biretta; there it lay in its faded
morocco case; opening the case the Cur6 gazed at it.
The silver was wonderfully bright and untarnished,
but the face of the Christ had been worn smooth by
time like that of the patron warrior-bishop, and be¬
cause of this the eyes appeared blemished. Was there
something rather dreadful about those eyes — some¬
thing thattsuggested wovmds? He looked closer.
Then all i^a moment he seemed to envisage those
who groped in a helpless, agonized blindness, their
eyes tom away by the bursting shells, their hands
outstretched in vain supplication. ‘Not Jan, oh, not
Jan! Do not let it be Jan!’ And yet they were Jan,
all those groping men; their moans were his moans
for their pain was his pain, and the blood that oozed
from their wounds was his also.

410

Sweating with anguish the Cure prayed: ‘Lord
Christ, do not let them take my pn’s eyes! [Lord,
Lord, do not let them deprive him of sight . . .
those who have eyes to see let them see. . . . You
who healed. ... Son of God, Son of Mary, have
mercy so that he may see You with the eyes of his
flesh. Christ crucified . . . Christ who rose from the
dead . . . Christ glorified . . . it is my son, it is Jan
. . . the child that for Your sake I did not beget. . . .’
With a mighty effort he checked himself, conscious
that his mind was beyond his control and terrified
lest it should plunge into madness.

§2

The frequent meetings with .iEliana terminated
somewhat abruptly. Jan excused himself on the plea
of hard work: T must work in the evenings,’ he said
to Christophe, ‘the Cure insists, and of course he is
right; just lately I have been growing slack.’_ And
Christophe did not question this statement, did not
for a moment suspect the truth—Jan had never
permitted interference with his studies.

As for iEliana who had so much desired to find
Christophe alone, she now seemed indifferent or else
distinctly hostile towards him: T have told you that
I cannot go for long walks. You know perfectly well
that I am sitting to Beauvais which is very fatiguing.
Do stop pestering me!’ And greatly bewildered,
Christophe would leave her.

But one thing inevitably resulted from iEliana’s
swift change of tactics: he could not get the girl out
of his thoughts and would find himself constantly
brooding upon her, and the more he brooded the
lonelier he grew, incredible how much he missed those
walks, how dreary the evenings had become without
her. And suddenly he felt an immense sense of loss

411

that encompassed far more than iEliana: something
had brushed against his life, something sweet and
disturbing like those scents from the hills; had he
stretched forth his hand he might surely have grasped
it, but instead he had driven this thing away by his
failure to recognize its presence. He had failed to
recognize the presence of love, of the warm and
comforting physical love in wliich all the world’s
creatures demanded their share, and in which there
was neither fear nor strangeness.

Oh, but never in the past had there been such a
moment for youth to rise up assertive, triumphant;
and perceiving that its moment had come his youth
rose to assert the right of its claim to fulfilment.
Behind it stood all those men of the south, strong,
virile and simple, from whom Christophe had sprung;
men whose vigorous bodies had brooked no denid,
whose sins had seldom been the sins of the spirit. A
mighty army they stood behind youth, eager to live
again in their seed, in the strength that they had
bequeathed to their descendant. Thus while Jan sat
bending over his books in a desperate effort at con¬
centration, or indulged in such endless self-imposed
fasts and penances that the Cure protested, Chris¬
tophe found himself unable even to pray, so great was
the indiscipline of his mind which could now hold no
image save iEliana’s.

Rather terrible days, for the more she confused him
the more clumsily he began to pursue her, so that all
that he did was unwisely done, as is only too often
the way with lovers. Every moment that he could
snatch from his bench would be passed in hanging
about Eusebe on some childish pretext that failed to
deceive, and Eusebe would look none too friendly
in spite of his erstwhile affection for Christophe.
Gramaci! a haJf-fledged, penniless boy to come
mooning around like a love-sick calf. . . . Ah, but

412

no, Eus^be had quite other plans in his drink-fiiddled
brain — there was Beauvais for instance. Beauvais
would be an excellent match; with her beauty and
wits jiEliana could catch him if she wished. Thus was
added yet one more dream to the dreams that lurked
in Mere Melanie’s bottles.

However, despite Eusebe’s annoyance, Christophe
would arrive with flowers for ^Eliana — humble
flowers that the old sandal-maker called weeds and
that shared the slopes of the hills with the maquis:
‘Look,’ Christophe would stammer, T have brought
you these, they are wild . . . not precisely what I
could desire. . . .’

She would thank him coldly then lay them aside,
not even troubling to put them in water.

The day came when he actually offered her the
plaque that Anfos had carved for his First Communion:
‘This is something I very much value,’ he said, ‘that
is why I am anxious that you should have it.’

iEliana stared at the Chalice and Host surrounded
by a choir of birds and much glory: ‘Not so bad for
the work of a half-wit;’ she remarked in a voice that
she meant to be irritating.

Christophe snatched it away: ‘You are cruel!’
he said sharply, ‘Anfos gives of his best — he carved
this with great love.’

‘Then why do you not keep the thing?’ she enquired.

‘Assuredly I will keep it;’ scowled Christophe.

But he could not remain angry with her for long,
and his anger once spent he became very humble,
begging her to come out in Goundran’s boat, or to
climb to the old citadel by moonlight, or to walk to
the vineyards beyond the town: ‘Just this once
.Uliana . . .’ he would plead, ‘just this once.’

She would smile as she looked at him furtively, then
turning her head aside, would refuse him.

And now even while he worked he must brood; there

413

was neither beginning nor end to his brooding. Why
had she left her situation like that? Something warned
him that she had lied about it. It was horrible to love
and yet to mistrust, the more so when in spite of mis¬
trust love persisted.

‘She lied — I am certain she lied,’ he would think,
growing fiercely and retrospectively jealous as he
visualized scene after scene from her past. Then his
thoughts would leap forward to the present and
Beauvais.

At this time he much longed for someone to talk to,
someone to whom he could tell his troubles. But
youth finds it hard to confide in age and Christophe
felt suddenly shy of his parents, dreading his mother’s
anxious face and his father’s eyes with their unspoken
question. He would go and see Jan, but having found
him would become almost equally shy with his cousin.
Moreover, Jan had grovm very aloof and seemed
disinclined to discuss .Uliana. Then again each would
secretly be feeling abashed because of the thing which
both had learned yet which neither could find the
courage to mention, so that presently Christophe
would get up and leave with the words he had
intended to say still unspoken.

Half reluctant, half eager and wholly obsessed he
would hurry along to the Cafe de la Tarasque. .®liana
would be in her usual place with Beauvais at a table
not far from the entrance. Then Christophe would
loiter beside the door in order to spy on them as they
sat there. Very shameful indeed he would find what
he did, yet in spite of its shamefulness must continue,
for his eyes would seem irresistibly drawn towards
those two, now always together. Every gesture, every
expression he would Watch with the fearful intentness
of one who observes ithe instruments prepared for his
torture. Sometimes he would walk quickly into the
room, conscious that he was attracting attention; then

414

seating himself he would call for wine, speaking
familiarly to the waiter, trying to appear very much
at his ease as though well acquainted with the life of
the cafe.

Mere Mdanie would nod and smile at him kindly:
‘Bon soir, mon enfant. Have you given your order?
That is excellent!’ For she liked his bronzed face and
the poise of his youthful, muscular shoulders; more¬
over she. observed the way the wind blew and was
noting the whole affair with deep interest.

But if Beauvais saw him he would tell his companion,
amused at her innocent look of indifference and at
Christophe’s hot flush as he got to his feet and bowed
rather stiffly to .Uliana.

Then one evening Beauvais insisted that he join
them: Tt is always bad to drink lonely,’ said Beauvais;
‘come and drink with us. AUons, what will you have,
some cognac? No? Very well, let us see what Mere
Melanie hides away in her cellar!’

His experienced eyes were dwelling on Christophe
with the thoughtful, speculative gaze of the artist.
He was thinking that the young male form at its best
was undoubtedly nature’s greatest achievement; small
wonder if .(Eliana were enamoured of those ^ely
restrained yet masterful lines. He glanced at her,
shruping indifferent shoulders. Cynical, ailing and
infinitely tired, Beauvais took life these days as he
found it. He accepted JEliana for the thing that she was,
a creature conducive to moments of pleasxire; a
creature who could sometimes make him forget the
ugliness that was scarring the world, the infirmities
of his own shattered body. Just this much she meant
and he found it enough; nor did her fidelity greatly
concern him, if he lost her to Christophe it would not
break his heart — she was beautiful, yes, but incredibly
stupid. So now he watched .^Eliana as she played with
the boy’s tormented, resentful manhood, as she smiled

415

and encouraged, as she frowned and rebuffed, and
the game seemed to Beauvais puerile and disgusting.
Quite suddenly he grew bored^ with them both; his
leg ached and he longed to be in his bed;

‘Waiter!’ he called irritably, ‘More brandy.’

The room was stifling, and the little violinist was
rnaking a truly infernal racket in an effort to please
Mere Melanie who insisted that he should appear
light-hearted. Round and round went the lumbering,
perspiring dancers, butting into each other, butting
into the tables; men who three years ago had been
lank, beardless cubs but whose chins were now rough
and dark by the evening; girls who six months ago
had been going to school but who now had the air of
experienced women. Forced products, the over-ripe
fruits of war, already tinged with an early decay
because grown in the steaming dung of disruption.
And since death was seldom far from their thoughts
they clasped and kissed and danced rather grimly,
not pausing to laugh when they upset a chair, or even
to jest while the music continued. Kissing and clasping
they danced against time, body straining to body,
desire to desire, for who dared count upon time as a
friend? Every woman possessed might well be the
last, every lover refused might not live to be accepted.
Even the youngsters at home on first leave qmte
failed to dispel this atmosphere of grimness, failed
to make of la Tarasque the place it had been on those
hot summer nights before the war when tempers were
short while knives could be long, when the little
violinist with the hump on his back stirred more than
the air by his shrill, teasing music. For one thing
they had not known the place then, with its gay and
inconsequent melodrama which had frequently led
to nothing more grave than a broken nose or a pru^
in the shoulder; for another the little violinist was sack
so that when he played he stirred only himself and

416

that to regret—no use boxing his ears, just about as
much use as smashing his fiddle! La Tarasque re¬
mained but its spirit had fied, perhaps to some limbo
expressly reserved for the unregenerate spirits of places.

Beauvais leaned back and closed his eyes; the pain
of his leg had grown more insistent, while the smoke
of the endless cigarettes had filtered into his injured
lung; at that moment he was thinking that he would
not much, care if a bomb were to drop and complete
his destruction. In any case he was tired of Saint Loup,
it was now September, he had been here for weeli,
better make up his mind to return to Paris.

And seeing that they' were unobserved, iEliana
moved quietly nearer to Christophe; ‘To-morrow,’
she whispered, ‘to-morrow night at the old citadel;
meet me there after supper. Do not fail me, you
who mean all the world. . . .’

The breath caught in his throat as her face brushed
his, as he heard the ardour of those last words: ‘You
must know that I shall not fail you,’ he muttered.

DD

417

Chapter xxxvii

T hat night Christophe lay very wide awake
marvelling because of this thing that had happened.
All the world he meant to her, she had said; and in¬
deed this did seem marvellous to him, so that he
trembled lest he break the spell ofthejoy that flooded
over his heart, lest his mind slip back again into a past
that had held so many strange apprehensions.

And now he must grasp at those gentle illusions
whereby a poor, troubled humanity will strive, at such
times, to link body with spirit, must perforce see
iEliana as one cruelly traduced, as one who had suffered
a grievous injustice; must blush to remember his own
bitter thoughts and those doubts which he felt to have
been so unworthy, and in consequence must long to
console, to humble himself, to implore forgiveness.

Oh, but he would strive hard to make amends, her
beauty should be very sacred to him; he would teach
her that love could be strong yet gentle, he would
strive to efface what had gone before —that stark
hideousness of which she had spoken. They would
wait for each other. She would gladly wait until he
was earning enough to marry; and one day they would
have a home of their own — a little house down at the
port like Goundran’s. ^Eliana would then make a
friend of Elise — they must certainly look for a house
near Goundran’s. Yes, but the war. His thoughts
paused a moment, yet even the war now appeared
418

less fearful for now he would have iEliana to defend,
and somehow this seemed to make all the difference.
She might even marry him before he went —these
days there were many such hasty unions — he would
ask her, as the time of his training was so near, and of
course she would answer: ‘I will marry you at once —
I love you.’ That was how .Uliana would answer.

Illusions, they began to gather more swiftly, and now
they were shining like clouds of glory whose very
brightness rendered him blind to his youth, his
poverty, his mean situation. He saw himself as one
possessed of the earth in possessing the love of the
creature he loved, and suddenly he wanted to shout
for triumph; to shout till the moon fell out of the
sky, till the stars came tumbling down through the
roof, till the peaks of the Maures bowed their heads
and trembled.

‘She loves me! She loves me!’ he wanted to shout
to the moon, to the stars, to the trembling mountains.

But in spite of all this he began to feel shy and
intensely self-conscious as he dressed the next morning;
and his shyness increased as the morning wore on, so
that he dared not look at iEliana when she passed
the open door of the shop and gave him a nod and a
smile in passing. Scarlet to the ears he bent over his
work, pretending to be very deeply engrossed and
snapping his newest chisel in the process. Indeed he
would gladly have bidden himself, so painful had
become his confusion; would gladly have hidden
himself from Anfos who seemed to be watching his
every movement, from his mother who begged him
to eat his meal, from Anatole Kahn who made well-
meaning jokes, from Loup whose smirk was unbearably
sly, from his father whose patient eyes urged him to
speak by the depth of their kindness and understand¬
ing — he greatly longed to lay down his tools and take
refuge in the solitude of the hills, there to pass those

419

interminable hours of waiting. For now in addition to
everything else he was haunted by a nebulous feeling
of sadness — the sadness that comes when the blossom
must fall to give place to the graver claims of fruition.
Inarticulate, shy and sad he felt, despite those erst¬
while moments of triumph.

Then at last the day drifted into the evening, and
the moon was rising over the harbour which in spite
of the war still reeked of wine and the dregs , of wine —
the same ancient reek that engendered such monstrous
imaginings, such hot thoughts of the godless god that
was Bacchus. At la Tarasque the little violinist ma de
music, and Eusebe lolled in his comer, and Beauvais
sat sipping his third petit verre while the couples
clasped and danced rather grimly. Outside on the quay
a quarrel flared up, burnt awhile, and died down amid
boisterous laughter; some sailors swung by singing
snatches of song; a stray mongrel lugubriously bayed
the moon, then yelped when one of the sailor-men
kicked it; from the water came the rattle of blocks and
chain as a boat was prepared for a night of fishing.
But Christophe had passed through the grey stone
archway that had been bequeathed to Saint Loup by
the Romans, and now as he climbed the quiet hill¬
side beyond, it seemed to him that that arch was a
portal whose door had for ever silently closed upon
all that was strange, obscure and unreal — for nothing
seemed real except .Uliana.

afe %

She was standing with her back against the ruins, but
she came towards him out of their shadows and passed
into the full, soft light of the moon, so that his heart
must beat thickly to see her. The moonhght fell on her
ardent lips, on her brow that was so serenely placid, on
the curves of her breasts that were generous and &m
as though fashioned to soothe and sustain creation.

420

And he thought that never before had she looked so
wonderful as she looked on this night when they two,
for the first time, were meeting as lovers.

He said, as he raised her hand to his lips: ‘I cannot
believe I am awake, iEliana, although everything
else in the world seems like a dream.’

She smiled at his courtly, old fashioned gesture;
smiled and wondered when he would kiss her mouth,
when he would take her into his arms: ‘Ajid yet I am
very much in love,’ she told him, ‘from the first time
we met ... it came like that ... all of a sudden
I knew that we must. . . .’ She paused, something
warned her to be on her guard, to tread warily with
this unusual creature for whom she had conceived so
clamorous a need, ‘that we two were meant for each
other;’ she finished.

‘Yes,’ he answered gravely, ‘I am sure that I also
was in love from the very first moment I saw you.’
He was thinking: ‘I must not make her afraid; I
must handle her gently . . . not like that other.
Doubtless she remembers and is feeling afraid.’ And at
this thought a great tenderness surged up in him,
a great wave of chivalry, so that he gazed with deep
love in his eyes yet forbore to touch her. Then he
said: ‘When we two are married, mon amour, I will
show you how a man can care for a woman — how
strong but how kind a thing love can be.’

‘When we two are married?’ she queried in amaze¬
ment.

‘Yes,’ he smiled, not hearing that incredulous tone,
‘and I think that we ought to marry quite soon,
before I leave for my military training. I would have
it quite soon, for I want you so much ... I dare not
let you know how much, ^Eliana.’

Then he told her about the plans he had made,
being sure of obtaining his parents’ consent. Just at
first he would wish her to live in their home; but after-

421

wards, when he came back from the ^war, he would
work day and night, he would slave if need be, and
perhaps they could then have a home of their own,
a little house down at the port like Goundran’s —
there would be Elise with whom she could make
friends, so that while he was working she need never
feel lonely. And all that he said seemed incredibly foolish,
incredibly lacking in worldly wisdom, to this girl who
had very soon gauged the world despite those chastening
years at the convent. No money, no prospects, and
he not yet eighteen, a fine match! She could
almost have laughed in his face had it not been that
she was afraid she might lose him. Bon Dieu, the boy
must be out of his wits:

‘But we cannot possibly marry, my Christophe.’

‘Not marry? You will not marry me?’ he stammered,
‘But I thought that you loved me, .(Eliana. . . .’
And his face whitened painfully under its tan, ‘iEliana,
do not say I have misunderstood. . . .’

Then ^Eliana looked into his eyes: ‘Ah, Christophe, it
is surely time you grew up — do not be such a child in
your understanding. We are young and we love — is
that not enough? Life is sweet because so uncertain
these days. Are we to lose all its sweetness, we two,
because we are poor and can therefore not marry?
Because my grandfather would not consent to help
\is by even so much as a centime? And because I myself
would never be willing to live as a constant drag on your
parents? Are we to torment ourselves, must we starve?
You will go to the front ... if you should not
return. . . Her voice shook: ‘But I tell you you
shall not go until I have had my joy of you, Christophe
— until you have had your joy of me

And now she no longer knew what she was saying,
could no longer pause to consider her words for the
lash of the primitive impulse that drove her —a
creature of rich blood and urgent desires, untamed,

422

unregenerate, and crudely insistent. At that moment
something died in his heart. His love for her died, but
into its place leapt an impulse as primitive as her own,
and he kissed her lips roughly, despairingly.

‘Hold me closer . . . closer, Christophe;’ she
whispered.

He flung out his arms with a queer wide gesture,
and even as he did so he cried aloud, for his hands
seemed transfixed by shafts of pain, so that his extended
arms remained rigid: ‘I cannot;’ he said wildly,
‘iEliana, I cannot!’

She stared at him aghast. He was standing quite
still, a dark, motionless figure, powerful yet helpless;
nor did he speak after those first words. There was
something awful about his stillness and about the
bewildered expression of his eyes. Turning, she fled
away down the path, leaving him there alone in the
moonlight.

His arms dropped to his sides. He looked at his
hands: the flesh of the palms was whole and unblem¬
ished, no wounds to account for that searing pain, no
traces of blood on the work-hardened skin, and no
pain any more. Bui fear — the old fear — only ten¬
fold more poignant than in the past. Covering his
face he fell to sobbing.

§2

Early the next morning came Eusebe, and he appar¬
ently all but demented: ‘She has gone! ^Eliana has
gone!’ he wailed as he hobbled into the Benedit’s
kitchen. ‘Only this moment am I come from the
station where the porter assisted them to catch the
train — iEliana and that lecherous cripple, Beauvais.
I slept soundly — I was tired — I am always tired —
and she must have sneaked out of the house and met
him. Ai! las, when I went to find her in her room her

423

things were not there and the room was empty. Blind
and lame though I am I immediately rushed off . . .
but too late, already a good hour too late . . . Ai, it
is finished, she has broken my heart, her ingratitude
has undoubtedly killed me!’ Then he started to curse
and upbraid the sisters for idle, loose-living, impious
women who had taken his money while neglecting
the child: ‘Was it for this that I paid them,’ he raged,
‘that I fed that pot-bellied Reverend Mother, that
I emptied my purse — yes, year after year — so that
they might teach the child to be virtuous! Ah, the
vipers, the vile, hypocritical strumpets, the usurers!

I shall write to the bishop.’

Marie sziid: ‘I am grieved for you, Eusebe — I am
naturally grieved at what you have told me. There is
one thing, however, that I cannot permit: you shall
not insult those good nuns in my presence; moreover
if you yourself attended Mass. . . .’ But at that
Eusebe lurched from the house and went hobbling
quickly towards la Tarasque.

Arrived at the cafe he burst out afresh: ‘Is this
place of yours a bordel?’ he shouted, ‘It is here that
my granddaughter met that swine with whom she has
gone off this morning to Paris. I shall make it my
business to inform the police!’

Mere Melanie adjusted a curling-pin, then she said:
‘I am not yet deaf, Eusebe.’

He stamped, groaned loudly and clutched at his
back —ten thousand devils! it was stiffening again,
in a moment he might not be able to move: ‘Tell me
all that you know of this business,’ he babbled.

‘What should I know?’ asked Mere Melanie blandly,
‘They would often retire to his rooms together, and the
waiter now tells me that they bolted the doors, but of
course they had the excuse of the portrait, though why
they must bolt the doors for that. . . . However, it
was really none of my business.’

424

‘But when did you last see the girl?’ roared Eusfebe,
by this time all but slobbering with fury.

‘Yesterday evening — you had only just gone, and
exceedingly drunk you were, I remember. She came
in and sat with Beauvais for awhile. She seemed
agitated but Beauvais was laughing. Presently she
left, I supposed for her home, but I did not enquire,
it was no affair of mine — you yourself had seen them
here many evenings. This morning Beauvais paid his
bill and departed; his tips, I am told, were extremely
generous! To me his conduct was above reproach,
though what may have happened upstairs in the bed¬
room. . . . However, I really cannot bore little holes
in the walls in order to spy on my clients!’

‘They might retaliate in kind!’ he retorted.

Then Mfere Melanie’s composure abruptly left her;
‘Enough of your insults, you drunken old liar. You
have called my respectable cafe a bordel, yes, and
now you make dirty insinuations! Bien, this I tell
you: not one litre of wine from your vineyards shall
enter my doors next season. As for you, you can go
and you need not return; you can take yourself
further along the quay. I am sick of your filth and your
filthy ways; when you are drunk you pollute the floor
— the waiter has made me representations. Get out!
Did you hear me? I said get out!’ And she laid a
ruthless hand on his collar.

But habit is the only real solace of old age and
Eusebe peered at his table, at the table where he had
tippled for years, dreaming those frequently scandal¬
ous (breams that lurked for him in M^e M^anie’s
bottles; and Eusebe peered at his chair, the one chair
in the room with arms and a cushion; then he peered
at Mere Melanie’s beetle-brows, and then at the
hump on her little violinist.

‘Mm^re, do not be so hard-hearted,’ he coaxed,
squirming feebly in her masterful grip; ‘m^m^e,

425

listen, 1 am naturally much perturbed, and when
one is perturbed one will speak with rashness. Let
me go to my table and try to forget. Believe me, I
have the deepest respect. . .

M^e Melanie shook him and prompdy forgave:
‘Gusas!’ she scolded, but not too unkindly.

So the little violinist with the hump on his back
fetched a bottle of the most potent wine in the cellar,
and this he uncorked with a flourish and a grin,
setting the wine before Eusebe. And presently Eus^be
forgot, as he slept to the sound of his own loud snores;
for habit is the only real solace of old age, and the
habit of la Tarasque was very consoling.

Chapter xxxviii

§i

I N the days that followed iEliana’s going, it seemed
to Christophe as though some firm hand had
been placed on the helm of his existence, while the will
that lay hidden behind that hand was trying to capture
and then to bind him until he had served its inscrutable
ends. And there came the conviction that iEliana,
she also, had been compelled to serve, that no creature
could ever exist in vain or completely escape from this
law of service.

Very ruthlessly she had shattered his love, very
crudely torn to shreds his illusions, and now he no
longer even desired this girl — he had nothing to give
her but pity. And yet he knew that through her he
had come to a wider and deeper understanding of
humanity; nay more, had glimpsed truths that all but
transcended his limited vision. It was surely the Life
itself that he had glimpsed, the very essence and
purpose of God from which flowed all seen and
unseen things; all tireless endeavour, all creative
mind, all sublime inspiration, all courage, all beauty.
And greatly bewildered he thought he perceived
that evil was only the shadow of glory, of a glory not
yet completely fulfilled but whose splendour would
ultimately cast no shadow, so that sinner and saint
would become one indeed, and that one the expression
of God’s fulfilment.

‘Even now they are not two but one,’ he mused,
‘an eternal oneness — it is always the same.’

427

And his thoughts slipped backward over the years
to that curious meeting with old Mathilde. What was
it that Mathilde had said about light and things inter¬
twined . . . had she also known? Then he suddenly
remembered his painstricken hands, and something
within him faltered and trembled.

§2

The scandal created by Uliana and Beauvais still
raged through the town unabated; few people could
talk of anything else. Santouno, a nice business!
But then what could you expect in view of a grand¬
father like Eusebe? A drunken old villain who had
even been known to behave with lasciviousness to a
cork tree! Small wonder that the girl had gone to the
bad on the first propitious occasion that offered. And
he wringing his hands and cursing the nuns and
swearing that he would write to the bishop. The
bishop indeed! Boudieu, what next? Perhaps he
would vmte to Saint Loup himself, or to Saint
Satumin, or the three Holy Marys! Thus they
talked and looked shocked and wagged scandalized
heads, deploring the looseness of girls since the war,
and forbidding their daughters to visit the caf&.

But Christophe and Jan when alone together
avoided all mention of ./Eliana, for their tongues
would grow stiff" at the thought of her name. And this
silence of theirs it was that betrayed them more
completely than any words could have done, so that
each had mvined the other’s secret, and having divined
it must feel ashamed, as though he had wilfully spied
on his brother.

It was Jan who spoke first — from sheer desperation.
They were walking towards the vineyards one
evening when he stopped abruptly and faced his
friend: ‘Christophe . . . it is about JEliana. I cannot

4s8

help knowing about you two before she went off with
Beauvais to Paris. I heard many things but I would
not believe ... I did not want to believe, because
, . . He hesitated, flushed and went on, ‘because,
as I think you have long known, I also . . . but for
me it was a most deadly sin, I have taken a solemn
vow to our Lord that I will be pure when I enter His
service. You were free and I feared — ah, but how
much I feared — that her coming across our path
might divide us.’

They stared at each other through the gathering
dusk. Then: ‘Nothing can ever divide us,’ said
Christophe.

‘But she might have bred hatred between you and
me,’ Jan persisted, and this thought seemed to him so
fearful that he gripped Christophe’s hand as once
long ago he had gripped it on those same hills in their
childhood. And now, even as then, he felt vaguely
afraid: ‘I do not want to lose you,’ he murmured.

After this they turned and walked on more slowly,
each engrossed by his thoughts, and when next Jan
spoke his voice sounded indifferent: ‘Eh bien, she
has gone. She will never come back — she has
ceased to exist.’

But Christophe was not deceived by those words,
divining the trouble that lay beneath them.

§3

The weeks passed and autumn gave place to
winter. During that November the Cur6 Martel
appeared to recapture his old eloquence, so that
people were flocking to hear Ms sermons. In Palestine
there was a great offensive:

‘A crusade! A holy crusade!’ cried the Gur6.
‘Ah, my children, it is terrible to be old. Were I
young I would not be here raising my voice, but in
Palestine raising my hand against those who have so

429

long reviled and insulted my Saviour — I bless God
when I think that our brave French detachment is
fighting shoulder to shoulder with the English.
Before Gaza the Turkish trenches have been captured.
Jaffa has fallen, by the grace of our Lord. He is
leading us on to Jerusalem: “Follow Me!” He com¬
mands, as He shows us the way through devastation
and death to life, “Follow Me, die for Me! Yes, if
needs be die that you may be one with My resurrec¬
tion”.’ Thus did Antoine Martel, Cure of Saint Loup,
strive to ease his anguish of heart by much speaking.

But now Jan was growing hourly more restless. He
could no longer study, nor eat, nor sleep, as the
galling frustrations imposed on his flesh began to
find for themselves a new channel. In great bitterness
of spirit he passed his days, but his sleepless nights
were even more bitter; filled with longings, and with
hatreds no less intense, so that when he knelt clasping
his crucifix in agonized prayer, it would seem like a
weapon.

‘Cleanse me even as by fire,’ he would pray, the
while he conjured up visions of war and the flames
and the blood and the lusts of war, lest he turn to
his lusting for MMdinz..

Such nights were leaving their mark upon Jan,
his face had grown thin to emaciation. A kind of
keen misery burnt in his eyes and shook in his words
of fierce condemnation — he could now seldom speak
except to condemn, and hearing him Christophe
would think of the shadow.

Every evening the cousins would spend together,
for Jan sought to escape from his mother and the
Cure: ‘Does he want me to skulk like a coward?’ he
would rage. ‘A fine thing in view of those sermons of
his! “Go,” he says to the others, but to me he says:
“Stay until you must go.” I think he is mad —or
is it from cruelty that he keeps me?’

430

And once Christophe answered: ‘It is surely from
love.’

‘Then I do not admit of such love,’ scowled Jan,
T find it cowardly, and very unworthy.’

If they happened to be in the Ben^dit’s kitchen,
as was often the case on these winter evenings, Marie
would feel the blood ebb from her heart. But le tout
petit Loup would feel his heart beating, and this with
such violence that it ached in his throat.

‘Babble; all you do is to babble!’ he wotdd jibe,
‘Dis done, how many Turks have you killed with your
tongue?’

‘More than you will ever kill.’ Jan might retort,
with a smile that emphasized the boy’s weakness.

Poor Anfos would crouch on his chair in silence,
and this silence of his gave them cause for misgivings,
since he now seldom spoke of his own accord and
when they addressed him he answered them nothing,
but turned his head away like a dog that is sick unto
death. Only with his eyes did he seem to speak of
unfathomable things when he let them rest broodingly
upon Christophe.

And meanwhile Jan would explain at great length
why Christophe and he should enlist without waiting.
If they waited until they reached the full age for their
military service they would probably be parted, where¬
as if they enlisted, as likely as not they could get
themselves sent to the same regiment — such requests,
declared Jan, were frequently granted. But they must
not lose time, they were nearly eighteen . . . Thp the
blood would go ebbing from Marie’s heart as it had
from the hearts of countless mothers.

One night Christophe asked his father abruptly:
‘If I wish to enlist have I your consent?’

And Jous^ thought: ‘Ah ... so here it is!’ as a man
might think who is struck by a bullet. ‘Ah ... so
here it is!’ Jous^ thought, for om: thoughts are seldom

431

attuned to such moments. Aloud he said: ‘Can you
doubt it, my son?’ And his voice was amazingly
clear and courageous, ‘France bred you through me, a
servant of France.’ Then he suddenly felt a great,
sickening weakness as though Christophe were being
torn from his flesh, leaving behind an unstanchable
wound. ‘Good night. .. God bless you . . . bless you,’
he mumbled.

Christophe slowly mounted the stairs to his attic,
and his heart was heavy because of his parents.
In the neighbouring attic he heard Loup’s cough — a
high, irritable, protesting cough that wore on the
nerves of those who must hear it. Then a pause while
Loup sucked a lozenge, he supposed, or sipped his
glass of lemon and water. No good undressing, why
try to sleep when one’s eyes would only stare into the
darkness? There it was again — the lozenge had failed
— cough, cough; cough, cough. Christophe frowned,
then sighed, ashamed because he hated that cough,
so high, so irritable, so protesting.

Sitting down he began to consider Loup, thinking
uneasily over his future. They could not control Viim,
nobody could; he would take his own line if it led to
the devil! What a will, what fortitude, yes, but what
rages — the way he had recently flown at the doctor
who had been so kind to him all his life, and who,
moreover, had spoken so gently: ‘It may be, my dear
child, that we always need men, but believe me your
heart and your chronic asthma . . . they woxild never
accept you, my very dear child . . .’ and then the
way Loup had flown at the doctor. Ah, those words.
They had none of them known where to look. He
had flown at the doctor and called him a fool who
did not know a heart from a bladder! Christophe’s
lips twitched at this memory — still, it would not
aavantage le tout petit Loup to heap insults on those
who wished to befriend him.

432

Loup was so small and the war so immense. He
would certainly lose himself in a trench, or get
trodden on, or pushed into a shellhole! His hands
were so small yet they longed to kill — weak hands,
sick hands that refused to heal when the skin was
rubbed off their palms or their knuckles — incredible
that they should lon^ to kill. Or was it that Loup
had forgotten death in his pitiful eagerness for life,
in his pitiful longing for physical well-being? Or was
it the thing that he, Christophe, had felt, that he still
felt, the intolerable urge of their country?

How many men had been killed in the war and
how many men remained for the killing? Great
armies of them, great empires of men coming on and
on through those rivers of blood; themselves bleeding,
agonizing and hating. One must hate, otherwise one
covdd. surely not kill. Jan hated, one could see the
hate in Ins eyes.. Yet the poilus down at la Tarasque
looked kind . . . perhaps one need only hate at the
moment. And all over the world there were women
who wept because in the midst of hate there was love.
They loved, those women, that was why they wept;
yet their tears had failed to unite the world . . . that
was strange for their tears were the hope of the
world ... a xmion of grief. He paused on this thought.
Was it grief that must finally win through to joy?
Was it pain that would some day compel all souls to
know themselves for only one soul? Was God pain?
Was pain God in His fleshly covering?

What would happen if he, Christophe, should
refuse to go to the war, should refuse to listen to Jan?
Would he then be denying his oneness with God?
But surely God was not war but peace . . . the
creator of a peace that man brought to destruction.
Why had nobody thought of the misery of God, the
pain of God? That was it, God’s pain. God was not
pain yet he could not escape it because of this terrible

EE 433

suffering oneness. How atrocious then to add to
God’s pain, to add to God’s wounds —God Who

could not die. , , . , , ,.

Christophe suddenly dropped his head on his arms:
‘No, I cannot add to Your wounds,’ he muttered.

Then someone spoke, and he knew that voice.
W^ose voice was it? Perhaps he himself was speaking:
‘You must keep beside Jan for a little while, Chris¬
tophe, until. . . The words blurred and drifted
away, as though they were being drawn back into
distance.

♦ * *

The next morning Jan came in search of his cousin.
He said: ‘This afternoon I enlist. I have told the
Cure. As for my mother she has not dared to refuse
her consent. Are you coming?’

‘Yes, I am coming,’ replied Christophe.^

Two days later they found themselves in the train
on their way to the infantry barracks at Toulon.

§4

It was not very long after this that Loup apjieared
in a clean cotton shirt at breakfast, although it was
only the middle of the week and his linen should not
have been changed until Sunday. Moreover he was
wearing his Sunday suit, and a pair of shoes that
Marie had bought him second-hand — they were
rather ridiculous shoes made of cheap patent leather,
but Loup had admired them. His nails were well
scrubbed, and his hair well pomaded with something
that smelt of vanilla and lamp-oil. His flashy striped
necktie was obviously new and sported an elegant
bijou-fix scarfpin.

Marie glanced up from the table with dull eyes:
‘Are you going to church, my son?’ she asked him.
Then, collecting her thoughts with an effort, ‘No, no,

434

it is Wednesday, of course, your mother dreams. But
why have you dressed as though for mass?’

‘That is my affair,’ snapped le tout petit Loup,
noisily sipping his cafe au lait, ‘since I earn I suppose
I may dress as I please. A man’s clothes are not the
concern of women.’

‘Houi, but you speak to me roughly,’ she sighed;
‘I cannot understand why you like to wound.’

He could not understand it himself, so he shrugged
and went on eating his breakfast. When he had
finished he left the house, banging the front door
loudly behind him.

Did he mean to sweep floors for the fat Monsieur
Bled? Ah, foutre! he had done with that species of
offal. ‘Turn, turn, dada dee;’ sang le tout petit Loup
as he marched towards the recruiting office, ‘turn,
turn, dada dee; dada dee, turn, turn.’ He wished that
he could remember the words; they were spicy and
male, rather lewd in fact, but what would you?
He sucked a cavernous tootli and spat very skilfully
into the gutter.

Arrived at the Gendarmerie he went in: ‘Bonjour,
Monsieur,’ he began with great aplomb.

A couple of poilus lounging near-by nudged each
other and grinned; then they looked at his shoes,
nudged each other again and grinned more broadly.

The sous-officier, who stood by his desk, gazed
down at le tout petit Loup with amazement: ‘Eh
bien, what is this? have you lost yourself? Be good
enough, please, to explain your business.’

‘Assuredly,’ bowed le tout petit Loup, ‘I am here,
Monsieur, to enter the army.’

The tail sous-officier scratched his ear: ‘Mais, bon
Dieu, how old are you then, my infant?’

‘I am nearly eighteen,’ lied le tout petit Loup,
‘I wish to enlist before I am taken.’ Then he spoke
with great earnestness, ‘Listen, Monsieur, I assure

435

you that although I may appear small I am quite
remarkably strong in the arms. And when it comes
to fighting, ah 9a! when it comes to that they will
find me a devil!’ He wheezed and hastily cleared
his throat; ‘I am more than a devil when roused,’ he
finished.

But this was too much altogether for the poilus and
they suddenly guffawed.

Loup swung round on them glaring: ‘I have said
that I am a devil. Messieurs, and I cannot do better,
it seems, than repeat it.’

‘And your parents, have you obtained their permis¬
sion to enlist?’ enquired the sous-officier politely, as
he stroked his moustache to conceal a smile and turned
a reproving back on the poilus.

Le tout petit Loup replied haughtily: ‘Monsieur,
my parents were bred here in Provence. In Provence
we love our country, I trust. No need to derange
yourself for my parents.’

The sous-officier remained doubtful, however:
‘There is also the matter of health to consider. Come
this way, if you please.’ And he opened a door.
‘Pardon, Monsieur le Docteur, a new recruit.’

‘Enter, my friend;’ said Monsieur le Docteur.

Ai! las, ail las, le pauvre tout petit Loup; he was
in, he was out, in less than ten minutes. And there
were those poilus still full of their grins and their
nudgings —a stupid couple of fellows. Not unkind
at bottom but somewhat obtuse, that was all, not
unkind but somewhat obtuse, so that the look they
saw on Loup’s face as he made his abrupt reappear¬
ance, meant nothing.

But the sous-officier was that very rare thing, a
person possessed of imagination, and he gravely
saluted le tout petit Loup: ‘Monsieur, in the name of
France we thank you.’

And hearing those words le tout petit Loup could

436

have sworn that he shot up a foot as he stood there,
at all events he felt suddenly tall as he also raised his
hand to the salute: ‘Vive la France!’ cried le tout
petit Loup in a voice that he managed to keep from
trembling.

Le tout petit Loup went back to the Bazaar, and
as good luck would have it Monsieur Bled did not
scold him: ‘You are late,’ he remarked, but quite
affably, for smart boys were increasingly hard
to come by. Then he said: ‘I shall want you to clean
some windows this morning, but first you must sweep
the shop. Look, I have bought you a brand new
broom. “He is worth a new broom,” I thought to
myself as I bought it. Allons, mon brave, en avanti’

So le tout petit Loup took off his best coat and
turned up his trousers and put on an apron. And he
went into action with a broom in his hand, killing
nothing more fierce than a wily old cockroach. And
he swept and he swept with the dust in liis lungs, but
with something less dry than dust in his eyes. After
which he put away his new broom, fetched a bucket
and proceeded to clean the windows.

❖

That evening Loup said to his father and mother:
‘I have an announcement to make, my parents’; and
it must be admitted that he spoke pompously. _ ‘I
desire to announce my plans for the future. Having
given the matter my careful attention ! have come to
the conclusion that with my fine brains I cannot do
better than become a teacherI shall therefore see
Monsieur Roland at once and inform Mm that I will
accept his suggestion. When the war is over there is
not the least doubt that my studies will be completed in

‘Now blessed be God and His Golden Saints I’
exclaimed Marie; and she kissed le tout petit Loup,

437

quite forgetting how much he disliked being kissed
which to him always seemed an undignified business!

Jouse struggled against his thickness of speech,*
his facial distortion more apparent than usual, but at
last he managed to blurt out some words: ‘Hou, I
rejoice . . . yes, yes, I rejoice. . . ’

This then was how le tout petit Loup accepted
defeat and won his first victory.

Chapter xxxix

§i

I T was not until his arrival at Toulon that
Christophe realized to the full what it meant to
become the slave of war; to submit his body and mind
to be trained in the endless duties exacted by war, in
the skill and resource that were needful in war, in
the ruthlessness that was a part of war, as he and
those like him were housed and fed, well clothed, well
cared for in matters of health and hygiene, well
drilled, and above all weU armed, lest they fail to
sustain the rigours of war or prove themselves badly
equipped for killing. He would tell himself that these
things had to be, that he could not escape from the
need of his country, that he also would have to go out
and kUl. But such thoughts would neither sustain nor
convince him, for his mind was now filled with its
conception of God —that agonizing yet merciful
God who endured all wrongs at the hands of creation.

T his conception of God was becoming more
insistent, drawing sustenance from the life of the
barracks. He would fancy that God heard the crude
blasphemies, the bestial words, the lascivious jesting,
that God heard Himself coupled with acts of shame;
with the hideous details of bayonet practice; and his
soul would turn sick at the thought of God’s wounds,
no longer glimpsing an ultimate glory in which sinner
and saint would become one indeed, and that one the
expression of God’s fulfilment.

At times his vision must fling itself forward to the
years when the guns would have ceased to thunder,

439

when the war would be a thing of the past. But then
he would see a more terrible army than any that h ad
taken the field fully armed, for its heart would be
cankered by disillusion. Great angers would rise up
to shake the earth — angers sown on the once reeking
fields of battle; great hatreds long fostered in those
who must slay — hatreds that would leap forth to
rend their masters. The lust of blood laid on the
unborn child from the moment of its wanton begetting.
Poverty grown in the soil of greed by those who
despised the fhiits of forgiveness. Misery masquerad¬
ing as joy to bemuse the minds of those who were
joyless. Immense and unreasoning discontents that
sprang from the weariness of the flesh;,despair that
sprang from the ills of the spirit. And wandering
tlurough this vast desolation as a beggar who must
plead for the means of subsistence, would be many
an one who had grandly endured, who had sought to
illumine the darkness with courage. In his worn and
threadbare livery of death such an one would very
terribly point to himself: ‘Look well, all you who pass
by, look well! I am he who lives on for the world’s
indictment.’

Appalled, and at moments helplessly bewildered,
Christophe would crave the solace of friendship.
He would try to speak of these things to Jan, but in the
end would have S2dd very little. ‘Tiiere must be
something. . .the gospel of Christ. , . war could not
exist if it were accepted, if they realized its magnifi¬
cence. It is splendid yet fearful, the gospel of Christ,
because like God Himself it is gentle . . . no, no, not
quite that... I cannot explain. But if, having faith,
a man should rise up and show the love of God to the
world. . . .’

Jan would shake his head: ‘We would still be at
war. If there is good there is also evil. The evil
must be crushed that the good may live — this has
440

been proved by the waxrior-sziints many times/ And
Christophe would find no answer. .

But one day as they sat in the Public Garden, he
heard himself speaking with a sudden violence that
sprang from the misery in his heart: ‘Jan, why are
they making murderers of us? Why are they driving
us out to kill?’

Jan frowned: ‘I do not understand your meaning —
to me it seems that you speak very strangely. I am
going to fight of my own accord, as every man should
when his cause is righteous.’

‘War can never be righteous,’ said Christophe.
And now his face was white, his voice shaken. ‘God is
wounded, every hour He endures fresh torments.
Because of our war He is covered with wounds. Were
it possible I would refuse to serve, I would tear this
uniform off my back, I would break my bayonet over
my knee. . . .’

‘You mean,’ and Jan’s voice came quiet and stem;
‘you mean that you would refuse to serve France.’

‘Before all things I would serve God,’ Christophe
answered.

Their eyes met, Christophe’s pale and bright and
tormented, Jan’s dark and disturbed by his rising
anger. Then a fearful thought struck like a lash on
Jan’s mind — ah, but no, not Christophe, the man he
loved. ...

‘Come,’ he said gruffly, ‘our time is up. And
listen; be careful of what you say—these are days when
the very stones have ears.’

In spite of his misery Christophe smiled: ‘I am not
afraid of dying in battle,’ he told him.

§2

The weeks dragged on. They were always the same
for Christophe, methodical, active, hopeless. His

441

relations with Jan seemed unhappy and strained, since
he dared not reveal the thoughts that obsessed him —
what iEliana had failed to achieve, he would some¬
times imagine that the war was achieving. But Jan
was finding himself again, and for this, at least, there
was cause to be thankful; yet Jan was less his than ever
before in their lives — or so it appeared to Christophe.

A great sadness began to take hold upon him,
together with a curious sense of detachment. He
moved like a stranger among the men who, in their
turn, regarded him as a stranger. They did not dis¬
like him, but rather it was that they found them¬
selves ill at ease in his presence.

‘C’est un original,’ tliey would say, and shrugging
their shoulders would leave it at that, for they felt
little interest and no resentment.

He grew homesick and longed for the things he
knew: the cuckoo clock that Anfos had broken; the
workshop with its scarred, familiar bench; the
Virgin’s picture that hung in his attic. And faces: the
preoccupied face of his mother as she bent to some
everyday household duty; the face of Anfos with its
anxious brown eyes that reminded him of the eyes of
MirHo; the face of his father, quiet, resigned; yes,
and even the wizened old face of Eusebe. And clothes:
he would want to take off his tunic and return to his
sleeveless, striped cotton jersey, to his patched linen
trousers grown limp with age; above all he would '
want to return to his sandals, for the army boots
frequently tired his feet — he would find their weight
unendurably irksome. Yet when he received a letter
from home in his motlier’s laborious, childish hand¬
writing, he would read it dully, since all that she
wrote would but emphasize his sense of detachment.

Marie would send every item of news that she
thought could be of the slightest interest: his father
was neither better nor worse. Loup had made up his
442

mind to become a teacher. Guillaume’s widow had
decided to return to Marseille; Marie did not think
that the Simons would miss her. Eusebe had been
laid up with his back, and she, Marie, had hurried
across to rub him. Kahn had engaged a new appren¬
tice, a young fellow who lived in a neighbouring
village, a consumptive with one lung already half
gone, but he managed to bicycle in every morning.
Anfos Was still refusing to speak. There had been a
really bad fight at la Tarasque —that great, hulking
Ravous had turned up again and when drunk had
seen fit to insult the Army: ‘Vive le Marine!’ Ravous
had bawled; ‘A bas les sales poilus, et vive les Mar-
souinsl’ Elise had called in the other day and had
talked for an hour and a half about Goundran.

Christophe would lay such letters aside with a
sigh — words, just so many words that meant nothing.
They were part of a life that had ceased to exist for
him, a life that had once been familiar and to which he
longed fiercely to return: ‘Lord, I want to get back,’
he would pray, and would know that his prayer held
a note of resentment, that the old inexplicable impulse
to escape from something intangible was heavy upon
him. Then shaking his head: ‘But one cannot get
back — perhaps that is the tragedy of this world, or
the hope of this world, one must always go forward.’

§3

When, at length, he was detailed to the regimental
pioneers, the clouds of despondency lifted a little, for
now Christophe was working at his own trade, yet even
this brought him no lasting comfort. As aU that he
did must be done to one end, the simplest tasks would
often seem hateful. But thanks to the change he was
quartered with the Transport and could thus wander
in and out of the stables, and could stroke the warm,

443

rough necks of the beasts, who feeling the deep friend¬
liness of his touch would nuzzle his shoulder, them¬
selves become friendly. And one day there suddenly
came upon Christophe an urgent desire to care for
these creatures, to minister to their poor, simple needs;
to sponge them and groom them, and change their
bedding; to see that their water was clean and sweet,
their food free from dust and of generous measure;
since who could foretell what might lie ahead of
hunger and thirst, of terror and wounds? And they
not able to comprehend the reason for so much un¬
merited affliction.

The Transport men were a rough lot of fellows,
coarse-mouthed, coarse-fibred and none too patient.
They would grin to hear Christophe telling their
mules to be docile and cease from biting the mangers,
to hear him addressing some trace-galled horse as
gravely as though he spoke with a General. All the
same they would let him help with their jobs, standing
by and chewing straws while he worked, but watching
to see that he did no mischief.

The Transport sergeant watched also, it seemed, and
the Transport sergeant was very attentive. He had
been short-handed in the stables for some time,
whereas there were pioneers and to spare, an
odd carpenter would never be missed; and. besides,
many men could be found to hack wood while how
few had a real understanding of horses. This queer
fellow, for all his ridiculous ways with the zebras,
knew how to avoid cracked heels — most painstaking
be would be over drying. He knew also, it seemed,
how to cope with a mule that had learned to aim kicks
with baleful precision — Gaby would let him do
anything with her, even to grooming her ticklish
stomach. Oh, well, he was welcome to the rancid old
cow, no one else would vie with him for her favours!

The Transport sergeant was a man of action, and

444

thus he remarked to Christophe one evening; ‘Bon
soir, mon Jean-Jean. What about a small transfer
from the bench to the stables? How does it strike
you? But no matter, for I have already arranged it.
To-morrow you shall come and read psalms to the
mules—unless you think they would prefer a concert?’
Then he chuckled, and turning, strutted away before
Christophe had even had time to thank him.

So now Christophe might serve the creatures that
served, and this he did right well because he loved
them. And of him it was very soon being said that if
he so wished he could ride the devd, or drive him in
double harness with Saint Michael — for the creatures
he loved grew in courtesy, as though they possessed
their fair portion of reason. If the men must sometimes
call him: ‘Graine d’oie,’ they respected his excellent
seat on a horse and his light, efficient hands on the
bridle; but in any case he could find in the beasts the
comradeship that his fellows denied him.

And because he seemed more content when they
met, Jan rejoiced that Christophe should work in the
stables. He thought: ‘That was only a passing mood —
no doubt the life seemed a bit strange just at first.’
Then he thought: ‘He has always loved animals; I
shall never forget how foolish he was about that old
verminous bitch, MirHo — in heaven he would have
had her, nothing less!’ And Jan smiled the large,
pitying smile of the young who are frequently wise
in all things save wisdom.

Chapter xl

§i

I N April, not long after Jan and Christophe’s
first leave, Colonel Prevost arrived at the barracb.
He had come upon special duty, it seemed, in connec¬
tion with the training of officers, and the Colonel
in command was none too well pleased, or so it was
judged from his fierce expression. The Colonel in
command was stout and ageing, he had long been
politely shelved by his country and beneath his
aggressively military air of importance lay a crop of
sensitive feelings. However, there it was, a la guerre
comme k la guerre. The Colonel in command puffed
out his red cheeks, berated the Adjutant, cursed the
cook for a lazy lout who made poisonous coffee,
chewed the ends off a number of cheap cigars, drank
a small aperitif and subsided.

Emile Prevost on the other hand was still quite
youthful, yet his tunic was already blazing with
ribbons. He had seen bitter fighting on the French
front to which he had gone with his Colonial regiment,
and there it was that he had won his spurs, receivmg
unusually quick promotion. But then had occurred
one of those monstrous blunders —or so it still
appeared to its victim —that are apt to hatch out
well behind the front lines: he had suddenly been
transferred to the Staff, becoming liaison officer with
the 422nd Infantry, and now here he was at their
depot in Toulon. For barely had he entered upon
446

that new role when along had come skimming a young
German airman wiA pink cheeks, yellow hair, and
an accurate eye —it should have been death, but
instead had been wounds and quite a number of
small odds and ends not too uncomfortably lodged
in the body; all the same it had knocked him out for a
time.

‘Mais oui, you will fight again,’ the doctors declared,
‘that is if you are patient and behave with precaution,’

Yes, and mark you, not even so much as a scratch
until they had given him that cursM soft job: ‘With¬
out doubt,’ he would often think to himself rather
grimly, ‘without doubt every bomb has its billet!’

In appearance Colonel Provost was neat to a fault;
his minute moustache was a model of trimming,
while his straight black hair lay so shiny and sleek
that it gave the impression of being painted. For the
rest he was sallow, of medium height, with intelligent
eyes and a resolute mouth. When‘he spoke his voice
was surprisingly soft, and when he was crossed it
became like satin. But perhaps his most salient
characteristics were his passion for fighting and his
passion for comfort. He loved piping hot baths into
which he would fling quite a generous fistful of ex¬
pensive bath salts; he loved deep, cushioned chairs;
luxurious beds; warm rooms and warm-hearted
solicitous women. But he also loved the crude harsh¬
ness of war, the rough life of the camp, the violence of
combat. Two Provosts there were, the one who would
lead his men with the reckless dash of a tiger, and the
one who would fondle a woman’s cheek and be able
to tell you what scent she used, what rouge, and what
special brand of face-powder.

He was not much impressed by the look of the
recruits when he scaimed them with an eye to his
personal servants, yet he fully intended to be well
served, and this he was at pains to point out to the

447

Colonel, though so sweetly that the Colonel could not
well take offence and must perforce send for the
Adjutant:

‘Colonel Prevost requires a batman and groom —
I wish them to be the best men you can find.’ God!
it was damnable to know oneself old, to have to be
civil to these impudent upstarts and pander to all
their new-fangled whims . . . ‘I repeat, the best men
you can find,’ scowled the Colonel. Then he offered
the upstart a cigarette.

Provost thanked him, lit it, and turned away
smiling.

§2

That evening Colonel Provost sat at his desk —a
large kitchen table littered with papers: ‘You are
cousins,’ he was saying, ‘is not that so?’

‘That is so, mon Colonel;’ Christophe answered.

‘And you come from Provence?’

‘Oui, mon Colonel.’

‘Ah, bon; I also was born in Provence.’ Then
to Jan: ‘You get on well together, I trust? I cannot
tolerate quarrelsome servants.’

Jan’s lips twitched as he struggled to hide a smile;
‘We do not often quarrel these days, mon Colonel.’

‘You may smile if you wish,’ Prevost told him
quite gravely. ‘And now listen to me with attention,’
he went on, ‘I expect my boots to be groomed like
my horses and my horses to be groomed like my boots,
and both horses and boots to be groomed to perfec¬
tion. I expect my own clothes to be faultlessly kept
and my horses’ clothing to be quite as well cared for—
they must have their comforts and I must have mine
just so long as we are both able to get them. At the
moment I find myself in extreme discomfort; par
exemple, I greatly dislike this table. It will be for
448

my batman to use his wits; if a less preposterous
table does not exist in the barracks, then to-morrow
he must go out and buy one, and a pair of heavy serge
curtains as well — a draught down the neck is very
unpleasant. I am busy, I cannot attend to such things,
they are part of the duties that devolve on my batman.
Now about my two horses; it wiU be for my groom to
watch over them in his officer’s interest; the least
sign of a cough due to dust in the com, or a poor
appetite due to stale, musty hay, and my groom must
report to me on the instant. I shall also want you to
have your own buckets and to keep them locked up in
your stable cupboard; colds are frequently very
infectious things, there is also the danger of influenza.
No beasts are to drink from those buckets but my
own.’

‘Entendu, mon Colonel,’ replied Christophe.

Prevost stared at the pair with speculative eyes.
He was thinking; ‘Quite tidy, quite clean and well
shaved. Their nails not too terrible, all things
considered. I incline to believe that they boSi
brush their teeth. The one educated, the other
a peasant. The one very handsome, the other . . . ’
his thoughts paused in search of an adjective, ‘the
other impressive; peculiar eyes though, decidedly
queer, might do almost any damn thing with those
eyes — my demented aunt Violette would probably
say; “psychic.” But the Adjutant tells me good hands
on a horse — trouble is that he looks to me pretty
heavy.’ Aloud he said; ‘Eh Men, I think that is all.’
Then he suddenly smiled; ‘I have an idea that we
three will become very excellent friends.’

And this was a way that he had with the men, he
would treat them as though they were equals, at times,
but God help anyone who presumed — no one ever
presumed more than once with Colonel Prevost.

FF

449

§3

Jan found his new duties exacting yet easy, for the
Colonel knew precisely what he wanted, and precisely
how to explain those wants in as few words as possible
to his batman. He knew also when a blunder must
be sharply rebuked, and when, in justice, it must be
forgiven. However, there were not many blunders to
forgive, for Jan soon became quite an expert valet.
The years of study had trained his quick mind to
respect the enormous importance of details, a training
that stood him in excellent stead, since all tasks to
which we whole-heartedly give of our best have
a very marked family likeness.

With great diligence then, Jan brushed, and folded,
and polished, and shopped, and brewed Turkish
coffee, and saw to it that the bed was neatly made in
the manner strictly prescribed by the Colonel —
Colonel Pr6vost liked his bed-clothes tucked in at
the sides, but left loose at the foot for some strange
reason, while the top sheet must be folded over with
care lest his chin should contact itself with the blankets.
On the table by the bed he expected to find cigarettes,
a lighter, a commodious ash tray, the latest novel,
a paper knife, and an old, much battered copy of
‘Canmde’ without which he always refused to move;
it had been in his pocket in many an action.

Yet the Colonel was so pleasant a person to serve
that he frequently seemed more a friend than a master,
as for instance, when he would encourage Jan
to talk of Saint Loup and his hopes for the
future, though he secretly thought it a pity that
Jan should choose to make a career in the Church
when instead he might remain in the Army. But
although he himself was libre penseur, Prevost’s
outlook was too broad to ignore religion; like every¬
thing else it was grist to his mill for he found the world

450

teeming with interesting people, and to all of these
he would grant their ideals, since to him the poorest
ideal was of interest. And thus he would want to
hear more about Kahn, and the old Eusebe, and
Monsieur le Cure, while his batman moved quietly
round the room putting this and that ready for the
morning toilet, or this and that in its place for the
night.

‘Yes . i . and then . . .?’ Colonel Prevost would
urge with a smile as he stretched out a hand for his
silk pyjamas.

With Christophe he naturally came less in contact,
and this he would find himself regretting. The big,
silent peasant with the curious eyes had managed to
stir his imagination: ‘Now tell me about your cousin,’
he would say, and if Jan hesitated would grow more
insistent.

All the same there was much that he would not be
told; he would never be told of those visions, for
instance, nor of the wheal upon Christophe’s back
that day when Jan had struck at the coTileuvre. Jan
lacked the courage to mention these things: ‘If I
did so my Colonel might laugh,’ he would thmk, ‘and
moreover they were only imagination.’

But this reticence had not prevented Prevost
from discovering their great mutual affection: ‘So
you both enlisted,’ he remarked one evening; ‘you
did not want to be parted, am I right?’

‘Oui, mon Colonel — you are right,’ Jan admitted.

Colonel Prevost said kindly: ‘That I well understand,
and fine friendships will frequently make fine soldiers.
But have you two never been apart in your lives?’

‘Never in our lives, mon Colonel,’ Jan told him.
‘Christophe believes that we caimot part, he says
that notihing can come between us.’

‘Now why?’ enquired the Colonel, whose interest
was roused.

451 ’

But Jan shook his head: ‘I have no idea, yet
something tells me that Christophe speaks the truth.’
Then, fearing that his words had sounded absurd, ‘Will
mon Colonel wear his new boots to-morrow? If so I
think I will soften the backs.’

‘He has quietly closed the door in my face;’ thought
Provost. Aloud he said: ‘Yes, the new boots. By the
way, your cousin is a very good groom.’

‘I am glad that he contents you, mon Colonel; we
both very much wish to content you,’ Jan answered.

§4

There was only one drawback to Colonel Provost’s
service: it did not seem to be leading to the Front.
Jan would think: ‘We might as well be in Saint Loup,
time is going on yet here we remain — dare I ask him
about it?’ And suddenly he dared: ‘Mon Colonel,
forgive me, but is there no chance of our getting out?
I thought, I had hoped. . . .’

Colonel Prevost looked up firom his desk: ‘T his
is June and you two are now due for leave. Well, your
leave has been stopped — think that over, Roustan.’

‘It means . . . ah, mon Colonel, it means . . .?’

‘That I am not quite done for yet,’ smiled the
Colonel. Then he bundled some papers into a heap,
rose briskly, fondled his tiny moustache, and after a
minute dismissed his batman.

* * ♦

It was in July that the orders arrived. Colonel
Prevost sent for his servants one morning and he said:
‘I am ordered to Palestine; it has been arranged that
you two shall come with me. Roustan, you must see
to my kit at once, please; and I want you to get back
to the stables, BenMit, and make out a list of my
saddlery. I shall not be taking the horses, of course,

452

we must trust to what we can get out there, but I
think that I may as well take my saddles. About leave;
I can give you both forty-eight hours starting from
to-night, terminating on Wednesday.’ He spoke
softly as always, not raising his voice, but under its
gentle monotony there vibrated a note of intense
excitement.

Christophe thought: ‘Judea . . .’ And even as he
did so there came upon him the curious feeling that
this name, like the name GalUee, meant home; meant
a place very far away from Provence yet towards
which his footsteps had long been turned. But the
Colonel’s eyes were now fixed on his face:

‘You have understood me?’

‘Oui, mon Colonel, I have understood.’ And
Christophe saluted.

Jan was thinking: ‘Palestine, om Lord’s own
country, the Holy Land of the old Crusaders. To fight
there; if need be to die there for Christ, to lay down
one’s life on that blessM soil. Oh, my Cod, I do
indeed thank Thee for this . . .’ Aloud he said: ‘If
mon Colonel will tell me what baggage he is proposing
to take?’

‘I was just going to speak of my kit;’ replied
Prevost.

§5

That night they travelled back to Saint Loup,
getting there in the dusk of early morning while the
windows of the town were still shuttered in sleep.
Then they parted and went to their separate homes.
No one had been on the station platform to meet
them, for no one had known of their coming.

Yet Meirie stood at her open doorway: ‘You have
come, you are here, all night I have waited . . . this
means?’

453

Christophe gathered her into his arms: *It means
what such leave always means in wartime ... it was
good of my Colonel to grant these few hours, he need
not have done so.’

‘Oh, my son,’ she whispered.

Then they looked at each other very intently as
though each would remember the other’s face, every
line, every curve, every fleeting expression. And as
they did this there dropped from Christophe that
well-nigh intolerable sense of detachment, so that now
he could stoop down and rest his cheek for a moment
against her protective breast as though he were once
more a little child; and she dragged off his cap and
fondled his hair, twisting it gently over her finger while
she murmured the simple and foolish words tha t are
often a great consolation to children. Thus they stood
in the quiet, deserted street with no one to see and
no one to hear them. And it seemed to Christophe
that never before had he been so completely bone of
her bone, and flesh of her flesh, and heart of her heart.
And it seemed to Marie that never before — no, not
even when he had lain in her womb — had she held
him so amazingly close, so protected and wrapped
about by her body.

‘BlessM be the Mother of God,’ she breathed.

And he answered: ‘Blessed be the Mother of God.
Come, it is time that we went to my father.’

Hi 3iC 9iC

J6us6 gazed at his son with heavy blue eyes in
which there still lingered the shadows of his dreaming:
‘Is it late — am I going to be late for work? Have I
overslept?’ And Aen he remembered. ‘Christophe
. . . you here?’

Christophe took his hand: ‘We are ordered to
Palestine,’ he told him.

Jousfe said nothing, for what could he say? He could

454

only smile his crooked smile — there was little left to
J6us6 these days saye that crooked smile wherewith
to show courage. And as Marie watched him, her
mind must slip back to the evening when she had
cried out in her travail on that bed that had witnessed
the coming of death many times, but also the coming
of life — her life, Jouse’s life, made one in Christophe.

Turning abruptly she moved to the door: T
will go and prep^e some coffee,’ she told them.

Loup hurried in. He was wearing his nightshirt
and his monkeyish face was blotched and angry:
‘Boudieu, I thought that the house was on fire! What
hour is this to arrive?’ he began. Then he realized
how it was and fell silent.

And now down the stairs came a soft, quick padding,
and suddenly Anfos was standing among them,
and Anfos was wringing his great red hands: ‘Master!’
he cried out, ‘Where are you, my master?’

Christophe went to him: ‘I am here . . . always
here.’

But Anfos cl\mg with great strength to his arm:
‘Master, poor Anfos cannot fly any more —farther
and farther and up . . . up . . .up! And, master,
Anfos cannot see any more ... all is darkness . . .
poor Anfos no longer sees the light. Lay your hands
on his eyes and tell him to see.’

‘Surely I will tell him to see,’ consoled Christophe,
and he laid a hand over the tightly closed lids.

‘Ai! ai! there is stiU no light. . .’ wsiiled Anfos.

At that moment Marie re-entered the room: ‘He
sees very well,’ she whispered to Christophe, ‘I cannot
comprehend what he means — however, it is good that
at last he has spoken.’

§6

The hours alternately raced and stood still. Nothing
seemed so important in life as time; not h i ng seemed

455

less important, with time non-existent. In the
carpenter’s shop worked the new apprentice; he was
very consumptive, shy and respectful. Ghristophe
helped the poor devil to shift a plank.

Kahn looked round from his bench: ‘There is no
need to help him, he is not so weak as he appears —
eh, my friend?’

‘Decidedly not,’ agreed the apprentice.

Kahn talked of the business, all was going quite
well, the apprentice had the makings of a first class
joiner: ‘And you find the work easy, is that not so,
my friend?’

‘Decidedly easy,’ agreed the apprentice.

Before dinner Kahn drew Ghristophe aside: ‘Just
one little word — I will do what I can, all I can. You
believe me?’

Ghristophe held out his hand and Kahn grasped it
a moment. Then they lit cigarettes and spoke of the
weather: it was sultry, they said. Whereupon the
Recording Angel lost interest.

Dinner over, the new apprentice washed up: ‘Per¬
mit me, Madame,’ he suggested, blushing deeply,
‘perhaps Madame wotdd like to go out for a little;
it is somewhat hot to-day in this kitchen.’

Marie tinned to Ghristophe: ‘And you, will you
come?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, and must smile at so foolish a
question.

They walked towards Eusebe’s vineyards. It was
she who had chosen this direction and when they
were come to the edge of the vines she said quietly:
‘Show me MirHo’s grave.’

He glanced at her, unable to hide his surprise,
and she thought: ‘He cannot believe that I care.
Ai! las, ai! las, and now I do care, for surely MirHo
also loved him.’

Together they went and stood by the spot where

456

Mirdo had lain for nearly ten years at peace in the
merciful earth of Provence: ‘She is happy — why are
you weeping?’ he asked.

And Marie answered: ‘Because of the ointment,
and because I did not quite understand. . . .’

Then Christophe knew that his mother must weep
for a sorrow which she had failed to share with
him. Very gently he stroked her tired, wet face:
‘It is never too late to understand,’ he told her.

Chapter xli

§i

T he next morning Christophe knelt by his mother
in the ancient church with its open belfiy, and
the Cure offered to each the Host: ‘Corpus Domini
■ nostri Jesu Christi . . And Christophe no longer
felt dread for himself at the moment when he received
his Lord, but instead must feel a great fear for his
mother.

Her shoulder touched his; he was suddenly con¬
scious of that poorly clad, patient and ageing shoulder.
He thought: ‘There is something which she must
endure — it is something from which I cannot protect
her.’ And his heart beat wildly against his side as
though it would break with her load of grief. Then
they rose and together they left the altar.

After Mass they stood looking out at the sea that
lay placid and vast in the July sunshine: ‘I love it,’
he said, ‘it has been like a friend, though sometimes
I have not asked for its friendship, I have just let it
take me and do what it would.’ For now he wished
them to share the sea so that she might look at it
when he was gone, and because it had comforted
him, take comfort.

Presently they went to call on Elise who would be
unable to go to the station. Goundran was with her,
he was back on leave, very stalwart but very white at
the temples. Two chil^en there were now for
Goundran to play with; Aurano had acquired a small,
458

turbulent brother who could do all manner of delec¬
table things by crawling and wobbling himself into
mischief, and — God wUling — she might have a
second quite soon, for Goundran’s leaves were not
proving unfruitful. Yes, indeed, his Elise was once
more great with child; that was why she was unable to
go to the station.

‘I cannot permit it,’ Goundran had said, ‘at the
sight of a troop train you weep so much that the tears
you swallow will pickle the baby! Paure pichounet,
he does not like salt even though his sire is a son of the
ocean.’

Christophe looked round the room. The walls
were still rosy from that brush that had dripped so
much pink distemper, and away in the comer was
old Mathilde’s chair, while on the table — would you
believe it — on the table was a large dish of heart-
shaped cakes!

‘You used to like them;’ said Elise with a smile.

‘Pecaire, but he certainly did;’ laughed Goundran.
Then he glanced at his wife: ‘They are marvellous
cakes, magic cakes for the man who has learned their
secret.’ And at this reminder she must actually blush
and pretend to busy herself with the coffee.

They stayed for an hour. Goundran seemed very
sanguine, very pleased with the world as he talked of
the future. The war was practically over, he said, the
Allies had cracked the damned spine of the Germans.
And after the war, Santo b^li Mariniero, the world
would then be a fit place to live in. Peace and plenty
they would have after the war, the bill being settled
with fat German money. He, Gouncftan, had
ordered his boats to be painted in preparation for less
arduous fishing.

But when Elise came to kiss Christophe good-bye,
there she was splashing tears all over his tunic, and
sobbing, and reminding them of the days when

459

Goundran had allowed him to paint the green shutters:
‘Never, never shall I forget it. . she sobbed.

‘Houi, why did I mention paint!’ muttered Goundran.

Eusebe was waiting when they finally reached
home. He had wandered into the house uninvited,
bringing with lum a bottle of vintage wine: ‘The
most perfect ever born of my grapes,’ he informed
them, ‘as warm and soft as the flesh of a girl. No,
no, I alone will remove the cork, I alone wili violate
this exquisite virgin!’

Marie got out the glasses, shaking her head, the
more senile he grew the more lecherous his fancies.

Eusebe lifted his brimming glass: ‘May the gods
protect you, my superb young hero. And do not
forget that I christened you with wine long ago when
you were a squealing infant, that I made the little
red mark on your brow.’

‘Enough of such talk!’ exclaimed Marie, turning
pale, for she was a peasant and superstitious.

Why, oh, why had he come, the old sinner of a
man? And now that he had come why would he not
leave them. But no, he must plump himself down on
a chair, without doubt intending to finish the botde.
And the kitchen to sweep and the dinner to cook —
queer to be thinking of such everyday things — and
tiaose ruthless, pointing hands of the clock, never
still, always moving and always pointing.

‘A long time have I known you,’ babbled Eusebe,
his eye growing somewhat watery and tender, ‘tell
me, do you remember the wonderful day when I
took you to feast on grapes in my vineyards? Yes, and
do you remember tiie more wonderful day when I
made you a present of your first pair of sandals?
And do you . . . .’

Marie suddenly cut him short: ‘Eusebe, you must
go, there is work to be done.’

‘Ah, well,’ he sighed, ‘I am old, blind and lame.
460

The old are seldom welcome it seems, very seldom.’
And with this reproach he left them.

The hands of the clock, would they never be still?
She must put on her apron and sweep out the
kitchen. The hands of the clock, would they never
be stUl? She must go to the sink and peel the
potatoes. But the hands of the clock, would they never
be still? She must cut the potatoes into neat little
squares 'and set them to stew with the meat on the
stove, then a pinch of herbs and a couple of onions.

‘CMstophe, bring me that bowl of imk, will you,
my son?’ How large he looked carrying the small bowl
of milk, large and anxious; and now he was spilling
the milk: ‘Never mind, do not trouble to wipe it up.’

Aiid his answer: ‘One moment, I will get a damp
cloth, otherwise it may leave a stain on the mat.’

A stain on the mat! She wanted to lau^h — only
then perhaps she would never stop laughing —the
milk might leave a stain on the mat! He was wiping
it up rather clumsily with a kind of slow, laborious
patience. The milk might leave a stain on the mat
. . . yes, and once that would surely have seemed a
disaster.

Cry out like the primitive creature she was? Cry
out with the terrible voice of all mothers, even as
MirMo had cried out for her yoimg long ago in her
hour of immense desolation? Cry out imtil the world
shook with her cries: ‘You shall not take him, I care
nothing for honour. I care only for the child that my
womb has held, that my pain has brought forth, that
my breasts have nourished. I care nothing for your
wars. He was born of love; shall the blossom of love
be destroyed by your hatreds? I care nothing. . . .’
Marie pressed her hands to her head.

‘Are you ill?’ Christophe asked her anxiously;.

‘No, my son, no, it is not that. I was trying to
remember . . . did I put in those herbs?’

461

‘Yes,’ he smiled.

And she went on cooking the dinner.

§2

Everything was arranged with that abnor mal
composure that will frequently come to us at such
moments. Christophe would bid his father farewell
then meet Jan and walk to the Presbytery, there to say
good-bye to Monsieur le Cure. Marie and Loup, and
Anatole Kahn, and perhaps the apprentice, would
wait at the station. Anfos had better remain at home
— they would teU him that he must take care of Jous^.

And now Christophe was standing by Jouse’s
bedside, and he noticed that his father was wearing his
medals. Two large tears trickled slowly towards his
beard: ‘Wipe them away, my son,’ he said thickly,
‘my eyes are cowards but my heart is brave and . . .
proud. I cannot quite raise my right hand.’ So
Christophe wiped the tears from Ids face. Then they
kissed: ‘God be with you, my very dear son . . .
always . . . always.’

Christophe answered huskily: ‘My father, it is
difficult to find words. . .

‘We have no need of words any more,’ said Jous^.

§3

In the kitchen Christophe found Anfos, alone.
He was sitting with his head on his folded arms, but
he sprang up the moment he heard Christophe’s
footstep: ^nfos, I have come to say good-bye. Anfos
. . .what is it? Will you not speak?’ For the madman
was gazing at him very strangely; there was love in
his eyes, and amazement and awe, there was joy, yet
also something like horror. ‘I am going, I must.
Anfos, give me your hand . . . this is our farewell.’

Anfos did not answer.

462.

§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.’ And his prominent
eyes turned and rested on Jan. ‘I know only too well
the feelings of parents. Up to the last diey 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.’ 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.’ 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
pfere. 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 bom ... Eh bien, what I

463

am trying to tell you is this. , , because of mon Cure
I have not missed him.’

‘Thank you, my son, for those words,’ said' the
Cure.

They talked for a little while of the church, and
of how the Cure would make restorations some day
when the workmen returned from die war and the
congregation could better spend money. Saint Loup’s
altar was letting the rain in, he told them,' the last
storm had wetted the saint quite badly. And the
Cur^ now ventured a very small joke: ‘It is possible
even that he may catch cold, for he cannot well
put up an umbrella!’

Presentiy Jan glanced at his wrist-watch: ‘We
must leave you, mon p^re.’ So the Gur^ rose, while
they knelt to receive his benediction.

Then the Curd opened a drawer in his desk, and
he took from its case the old silver rood blessed for a
holy death by some saint — a saint whose name he
could not remember: ‘This rood belonged to my
mother,’ he said gravely; ‘Long ago it was blessed
for Bona Mors. See, it has a very strong chain and
can therefore be safely worn round the neck. I my¬
self have had it a great many years, and now I am
going to give it . . .’ His voice faltered, ‘to give it
to . . .’ He had stretched out his hand and had given
the old silver rood to Chiistophe. He thought that he
cried out: ‘No, no, it is Jan’s!’ Yet he knew the next
moment that he could not have spoken, for Christophe
had slipped the chain over his head and was thrusting
the crucifix into his tunic.

‘How can I thank you for this, mon pfere—how
can I thank you?’ Christophe was saying; and Jan’s
eyes were brimming with gratitude because the gifi:
had been offered to Christophe.

The Cure stared at them; then he found his com¬
posure and spoke calmly as befitted his office: ‘I shall

464

not forget to pray for you both. To-morrow I shall
offer my Mass for you both, begging our Lord to pre¬
serve you in safety. And I hope you will sometimes
pray for me, and for all who are charged with the
care of souls, that we may not fail before heaven in
our duty.’

* * *

After Aey had left him he stood very still; and
erect he stood, in spite of his years, as a man might
stand who faced death with courage. And he strove
to lift up his heart to God, to lift it beyond the love of
the creature, so that it might serve none other than
God. But his heart would rise only a very little and
must always return to the place whence it came —
perhaps because it was wiser than he, knowing better
where it would find its Creator.

• §5

Ghristophe stood with his mother on the platform.
The train was late, trains were always late these
days and when they arrived, overcrowded.

Loup was there, and Madame Roustan was there
with her arm through Jan’s, and Eusebe who had
hobbled along by the aid of a stick and immediately
joined the family group, and he reeking of drink
every time he exhded, to the great indignation of
Madame Roustan. But for all his foul &eath the
old pagan was sober, and because he was sober was
melancholy, so that his eye kept filling with tears
which he smudged away with a dirty forefinger; then
he wiped his nose on the cuflf of his shirt with his
usual splendid disdain of convention.

Oh, but quite a munber of people had come:
Goundran together with his pretty Aurano; the
Simons, in memory of Guillaume their son; the Her-

GG 465

mittes, because they were Marie’s neighbours; M^rc
Melanie, gladly preparing to weep, and with her the
little hump-backed violinist. The fat Monsieur Bled
had also arrived, and the Doctor who never pressed
for his payments, and Monsieur Roland who had
hurried so much that he felt himself bound to unfasten
his collar, and Kahn’s new apprentice, ve^ humble
and shy, and wishful that they should ignore his
existence. And last but not least, the kind-hearted
woman who had used to give Jan of her choicest
peaches for the sake of that boy of hers who had died,
but who now for his sake gave Jan cigarettes, since
the boy had he lived would have been a man
also.

Marie thought: Tt is odd to feel so much alone,
here are many good friends yet they seem like stran¬
gers.’ For she ^ad not yet learned that the bitterest
thing about grief is its sense of complete isolation.

But Christophe divined her thought and he said,
takin g care that his voice should reach her only:
‘Distance does not exist, it is all here and now; there
is neither time, separation nor distance. Where you
are I am; where I go you shall come . . .’ What was
he saying? Whose words were these? And to whom
had he spoken such words before . . . where you are
I am . . . had it been to Anfos?

She looked at him with her good faitMul eyes in
which there was love but no understanding.

Far away down the line a white curling cloud;
then a dull, thudding sound that came nearer and
nearer; then shouts and a huddle of grinning masks
as the poilus crowded up to the windows, struggling
like cattle for a breath of fresh air, but still ribald,
light-hearted, good-tempered and lon^-suffering. Jan
kissing his mother. Everyone pressing forward to
shake the extended hands of the poilus, to shake
Jan’s and Christophe’s hands in farewell.

’ 466

‘Ah, the dear brave fellows, so handsome, so
young!’ Mere .Melanie choking with emotion by
now, and repulsing her anxious little violinist.

Eusebe peering up into Christophe’s face and
harking back to his thoughts of the morning: ‘Many
years have I known you, mais oui, many years, I
remember the day when you were baptized . . But
the train will not wait for old Eusebe, and others have
just as much right to a word:

‘Bonne chance! bonne chance!’

‘Take care of yourself and come back soon!’

Then Goundran’s gruff voice: ‘But naturally he
will be coming back soon, Dieu! have I not said that
the war is over?’

Le tout petit Loup as red as a beetroot:
‘Christophe!’

And suddenly he is blubbering. One tear for
Christophe and ten for himself; yes, but actually
blubbering, le tout petit Loup, and in public, for all
his fine scholarly brains that are destined to get him
quite soon to Paris. Ai! las, Ai! las, le pauvre tout
petit Loup — ten tears for himself but at least one for
Christophe.

Marie dry-eyed and dazed in the arms of her son;
his lips on her cheek, and his arms so strong that they
hurt her. But how has this come to pass? A short
time ago and her son was a baby. His arms are not
there any more. He is gone. She can see his face
close to Jan’s for a moment, then those unknown
faces are crowding between.

‘Bonne chance! Bonne chance!’

‘Do not stay away long!’

The ixain has begun to move out of the station.

* * *

Over the waste land that led to the line beyond
the platform, someone was running —a man with

467

rough hair and a thin, unkempt beard: ‘Stop! Stop! '
it is God you kill!’ he screamed wildly.

No one saw or heard the man but a peasant who
was driving an ox-cart near-by on the road-way —
he was stupid, he stared. ‘Stop! Stop! it is God!

It is God you kill ... it is God! It is God!’ The
peasant left his team, but too late, for the man had
already reached the line. Was he crazed? He was
standing with outstretched arms. ‘Stop! Stop! it is
God . . .’ Then the engine struck him.

A great sickening jolt as they flung on the brakes:
‘What has happened? What is it?’ ‘Some poor devil
is done for!’ ‘But who? Let me see — move that car¬
case of yours!’ ‘Stop kicking my corn, fils de noble
vache!’ ‘But who is it?’ ‘Ah, bon, already a corpse,
a fine omen!’ Then a laugh: ‘Only one among
many. Le voila! they have dragged what is left of
Viim out . . . Merde, it makes me feel quite homesick
for Flanders!’

Jan had been pushed back by the jostling poilus:

‘Is it anyone from our own town?’ he kept asking.
‘Tell me, is it anyone from our own town?’

Ghristophe managed to shoulder his way to the
window, and he saw the poor remnant of human
flesh, so tom, so fearful to look on in death. The face
had been all but obliterated, yet he knew that indes- .
cribable blur.

Returning to Jan, he said- quietly: ‘A litde child
has died . . . it is Anfos.’

468

Chapter xlii

§i

O N either side of the French Detachment stretched
the far-flung, powerful forces of Britain, mile upon
mile they stretched east and west, the arms of a giant
on the trunk of a pigmy — a political pigmy, or so
it was said by some, but for all that efficient enough,
since most of its members had seen hard service.

The September night was bountiful and moonlit,
having about it the quality of stillness that engenders
a deep and refreshing sleep in those whom the toils of
the day have wearied, having about it the quality of
peace that engenders a mood of prayer in the religious,
having about it the quality of mystery that engenders
romance in the hearts of lovers. But the night could
bestow none of these gentle things, for its spirit must
submit to the violence of war, to the thunder of the
Turkish artillery whose barrage dropped now upon
No Man’s Land and now upon flesh and blood in the
trenches.

The men of the Legion d’Orient crouched, waiting;
they had something to wait for, those Armenians; and
the Syrians, they also had their memories and could
therefore wait with comparative patience, cursing
softly and often in Arabic while doing quite a lot of
hard thinking.

Colonel Prevost had said, and no doubt with some
truth, when an officer of the Tirailleurs had spoken
disparagingly of this mixture. Colonel Prevost had

469

said: ‘A weak brew? Well, perhaps, but a good dash
of hate gingers up the worst cocktail; moreover; if
they trust their leader they will fight. The worm
that is baited too long may turn and surprise, its
tormentors by becoming a scorpion.’ And then he
had whistled a bright little tune, which meant that:
the brief conversation was ended.

A queer medley the Legion d’Orient; the Syr ians ■
fine looking fellows for the most part, with thfe dignity
of the Arab race and the eyes of those who look out on
wide spaces. The Armenians as different from each
other in type as a carrion crow from a mountain eagle;
some tall, finely featured, agile and brave; some
squat; some resembling Jewish pawnbrokers; a people
Aat while struggling to find itself had been marred
in the making by persecution, but a people that never
lost sight of its wrongs or despaired of a possible day
of vengeance.

Christophe sat with his rifle across his knees; he
appeared to be staring intently at nothing. On one
side of him Jan was telling his beads, his face tense
with a kind of fanatical rapture; on the other a weedy
Armenian crouched — Toto, he was nick-named,
after the lice that revelled in his greasy and tender
sl^; it was all but impossible to de-louse him. Toto
flinched at every burst of a shell and he talked in a
rapid, hysterical whisper. His French was fluent but
execrable, and while he whispered he scratched his
armpits:

‘My mother, I think of her,’ he was saying, ‘my
rnother lay hidden for two days in a dung-heap, and she
big with child, her time almost come — that was in
1896 when my father was murdered at Constantinople.
Men, women and children they bludgeoned to death,
my father’s brains were splashed on the pavement.

I was born with the taste of dung in my mouth, oh,
yes, but I was baptized a Christian. My poor people

470

have died in their millions for Christ, and now 1 a«l
'going.to avenge my people! My uncle and my mother
they both escaped, they were saved by a family of
Catholic Armenians; we had always been Gregorians
,^i> to .then, but after that we also became CathoUcs
the Catholics were being protected by the French,
^’Sb'. my uncle thought better get French protection,
dv.anfglad to be here; I shall fight for France, for
JfeSus Christ and my dear dead people — it is good to
have something for which to fight, when I thmk of
my people I feel like a lion! My uncle he saw a
remarkable thing; it was outside the station at Con¬
stantinople; the railway cutting was piled with our
dead and dying, they had thrown them into the cutting
and because they were there the train could not pass,
it was blocked by our martyred dead and dying.
My uncle has told me this many times; a tall English¬
man left the train, he has told me, a man very young
but whose hair was quite white, and whose clothes
were all white, my uncle thought drill — that was^ in
August, 1896, when the mob was rewarded for killing
my people. The Englishman carried those who were
dying back into the station — they dared not refuse
him: “This is terrible!” the officials exclaimed to the
Englishman because he was English. And my uncle
says this; “He was all white,” he pys, “but after a
litde while he was scarlet.” That is why I am glad
to be here in this trench fighting for France and also
for England,’ A shell burst a trifle too close to be
pleasant and Toto ducked, then the whispering
continued, ‘With my bayonet I shall slit many Turks;
oh yes, oh yes; “blood for blood,” I shall say, “iny
mother ate dung, and now you, filthy dogs who kill
innocent Christians, you can eat your own entrafis j” ’
On and on went that rapid, hysterical voice.
Christophe heard it, but only with half his mind, for
his mind was engrossed by thoughts of Anfos. Kahn

' 471

had written telling of the madman’s last words:
Anfos had said they were killing God, that was why
he had wanted to stop the troop-train. He, Christophe,
had many times pictured God’s wounds, the more
agonizing because God was immortal. God’s wounds
. . . but supposing God could, in fact, die, could be
wounded to death by His merciless creatures? Even
now it might well be that God was dead, that the
world was abandoned to this horror of war because
it had slain the one source of mercy. If that source
had been slain then the world was doomed, he was
doomed, Jan was doomed, and this man who whispered.
And Christ . . . what of Christ? He also had died;
He had died on the Cross . . . yes, but had He risen?
Queer to harbour such doubts and yet remain sane,
sane enough to be valuable to one’s Colonel —but
perhaps the tnind could disguise its real self; or per¬
haps every creature possessed two minds, one acutely
self-conscious, the other automatic. Back there in
Lydda that letter had come. . . . What had he been
doing back there in Lydda? He had found an olive
grove close to the town; he had walked to it all alone
one evening, and had suddenly felt an anguish of soul
for which there had seemed no discernible reason.
Round Saint Loup there were many such olive groves,
but this one in Judea had struck him as different.
Then Ramleh where Jan had become all on fire at
the sight of that ruined church of the Crusaders —
Jan had actually knelt down and kissed the stones
surreptitiously, when he thought no one was looking.
It was clearing how, his brain felt less dazed, he
could see quite a number of clear little pictures.
The Colonel’s horses; they had both been abandoned,
the one dead of sand fever, the other gone sick and
left to die with the Veterinary Section. It had been
very hard to leave that sick horse, for its filming eyes
had reproached and questioned. But the time was

472

so short, the Colonel must tramp when the railway
came to an end, if need be: ‘My feet are no more
precious than my men’s’; and tms sayiug had gone
the round of the regiment. Then: ‘B^nedit, you are
returned to duty; I can do with an extra orderly, and
moreover, every able-bodied man will be needed.’
‘Oui, mon Colonel.’ He was always replying: ‘Oui,
mon Colonel,’ in a steady, brisk voice — that was why,
no doubt, they considered him useful. Yes, and so he
was useful with the part of himself that appeared to
be purely automatic. . . . The camouflaged country,
a l^d- of grim game, a gigantic and very ingenious
deception —to what purpose the rank and file were
not told. Then the great Concentration Camp of the
English. The English were firiendly, good-tempered
men; they would grin and want to exchange tea for
wine. Jan thought them like schoolboys, as indeed they
appeared — one was always expecting them to play
marbles. Their own French Detachment, absurdly
small yet comprising a bewildering assortment of
colours, from white to black and firom black to white
with every intermediate gradation. Colonel Prevost
treated with marked respect because of his record on
the French firont . . . and now Colonel Prevost was
waiting in a hole that they had dug for him, he and
Jan together, just before they themselves had taken
up their positions. ^

sic

‘Christophe.’

‘Yes, Jan?’

Jan had put away his beads and was looking at
Christophe rather shyly: ‘Christophe, there is some¬
thing I want to say —All our lives I have felt as
though we two were brothers, very close to each other,
as it were one flesh in spite of our quarrels. ... I
wanted you to know.’

473

‘I tTiinlc we have both always known,’ replied
Christophe. Then he said: ‘Listen, Jan, if anything
shoiild happen, promise me that you will take care of
my mother. ... I feel that I want to give her to
you.’

‘Where is the old silver rood?’ Jan asked him, ‘Let
me lay my hand on the old silver rood before
answering.’ So Christophe unfastened his tunic and
Jan laid his hand on the silver rood: ‘In the name of
our crucified Lord, I promise.’

The chaplain passed with bent head, walking
quickly. He looked strange in his soutane and battered
steel helmet. Someone had been hit farther down the
line, they could hear him trying to scream and choking.

‘Our chaplain is brave, very brave;’ murmured
Jan. ‘They say he fears nothing in war but one thing:
that a man should die without Holy Communion.’

i^er this they fell silent. A Syrian groaned as he
loosened a putrid sock that was sticking. Toto was
beginning to eat and drink; rough wine, hard-tack,
and meat from a tin — all he had, the field kitchens
having been forbidden. The men shuffled, and sighed,
and swore under their breath, and examined their
equipment for the hundredth time, while the shadows
grew darker along the whole front. Christophe
glanced up at the changing sky —it could not be
long now, the moon was waning.

§2

Darkness; but a darkness that was falling to pieces,
that was splintering into millions of atoms, that was
racked and disintegrated by sound. The earth was
being disintegrated and the darkness was hailing
down on the earth, those millions of atoms that had
been the night hailing down and piercing like sharp,
black darts. . . . The earth rocked and gave, the earth

474

held up its arms in supplication and its arms were
struck off. There was no earth any more, no sky and no
air . . . those who moved must be souls in some un¬
dreamed of hell, a hell of sound . . . nothing was left
but sound . . . the whole universe was writhing and
dissolving in sound, the sound of that terrific bombard¬
ment.

Guns were answering guns, the Turks were replying,
shells crossed and recrossed, they were bombarding
heaven. Through a pall of dense smoke and choking
dust the men of the Legion were leaping forward. He,
Christophe, was leaping forward with the rest . . .
his mouth was wide open, he could feel himself
yelling, he could feel the great strength of his musctilar
thighs, the great strength of his work-hardened
muscular hands. Jan was near him, vaguely discerned
through the smoke, they two were close on the Colonel’s
heels . . . the Colonel was waving an arm as he ran;
he was leading his men, he had sworn to do it. He was
glancing round ... his face was quite changed . . .
but perhaps every face now looked like the Colonel’s.

They were pouring into the enemy trenches,
touching bodies that felt like their own —human
bodies. Some creature was trying to defend itself by
shooting at close quarters, it must be mad ... it had
failed ... it was dead, with a gaping belly. This
detestable vigour that possessed the limbs, that surged
up to the brain and set it ablaze; it was like a heady
and poisonous wine, one wanted to sing, one wanted
to sob . . . one was doing all manner of things at
once, loving and hating, pitying and killing. Was
this Christophe who had so often pictured God’s pain?
His lunges were ruthless and accurate, but now he was
using the butt of his rifle . . . what was it that had
gushed out over his hands? Jan’s foot was on a man’s
chest, he must wrench . . . the Sergeant had warned
them against such thrusts, bones were awkward things,

475

the Sergeant had warned them. Toto was vomiting
while he killed, the vomit was red, he had drunk too
much wine, it had soured in his stomach because of
his terror. He was retching but he dared not stop to
be sick . . . was the smoke less dense? one could see
things so clearly . . . blood was trickling onto Toto’s
hand from a long, shallow gash across his wrist. . . .
And the guns, were they suddenly making less noise?
one could hear other sounds. . . . O God, O God,
the groans of the dying, the shrieks of the wounded,
the angers that thundered deep in men’s hearts. . . .
A mule had broken loose, no, two mules, over there
on the right — they were dragging their traces. But
how could one see them so far away? As they galloped
they were leaving great splashes of crimson. Shoot
them, someone! Have pity on them, God; are You
dead? Shoot them! Shoot them! They do not under¬
stand . . . they suffer and do not understand. . . .
There was no God, men had killed their God; that
was why, being dead, He could not feel pity. Jan was
leeming forward the better to lunge ... he had
lunged and blood spurted into his face . . . a baptism
of blood ... he was coughing and spitting. He had
stumbled. A-a-h, would you? A mighty thrust, then
a sickening weight at the end of one’s rifle.

A pause for the second wave to come up. The Turks
were leaving their wounded behind them . . . that
boy with the delicate, clutching hands and the soft
wlute skin —he looked like a woman. On again.
Jan, for Christ’s sake do not crush out his life! For
Christ’s sake. . . .Jan was mad, he must be mad,
he was killing in the name of the Trinity: Tn nomine
Patris, et Fiui, et Spiritus Sancti. . . .’

♦ ♦ *

Hours had passed . . . were they hours or years
that had passed? He and Jan were still fighting side

476

by side . . . amazing how close they managed to
keep to each other, they had seldom been separated.
The Colonel’s automatic had jammed; Jan was
thrusting his own weapon into his hand, then snatching
a rifle from a dying Armenian, Stop! Stop! it is God
you kill ... it is God. . . . Anfos also was mad for
there was no God — if there had been He must surely
have pitied those beasts, and that wounded boy with
the face- of a woman.

A battery had opened fire on their flank, they were
being forced back to the slopes of a wadi; they were
trying, to find cover among the rocks. The Colonel
was waiting for reinforcements . . , the Colonel
had lighted a cigarette . . , it was bad, this cross-fire,
very bad indeed. Now Toto was down. He squealed
like a pig, rolled over and over and squealed like a
pig, clutching at his guts. Do not make so much noise,
stop that squealing, it opens the wound, you fool!
Toto made one feel angry, squealing like a pig, one
felt angry as one dragged him to comparative safety.

4e 4c

They were reinforced. Was it morning or evening?
What blue eyes he had that young German gunner
standing there in the middle of five dead men . . .
his blue eyes looked vague, he appeared very stupid,
for he would not use that big mauser of his. And now
he was resting his hand on the gun; when he with¬
drew it a part remained behind on the muzzle . . .
he was stupid indeed, staring down at his palm that
was bmmt to the bone. He was dead like the rest . . .
yes, but who had killed him?

Bells , . . how strange to hear bells in battle.
And so faint they sounded, as though far away —
faint yet .clear. They were playing a Provengal hymn:
‘Jesus Christ, the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the
Victim.’

477

Blood everywhere; the soil watered with blood.
Christian and infidel made one in their wounds, no
dilFerence at all, and made one in death — l ying
side by side, united in death.

‘Jesus Christ, the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the
Victim.’

The Armenians had fought well, they were still
fighting well, intent on avenging the wrongs of then-
people, but the Turks appeared to be in full flight.
Here and there a stand made by exhausted men who
were ready to die and thus asked for no quarter. They
went gallantly, those who had stayed to die. . . .
Christian and infidel united in death ... it was
always the same, an eternal oneness. But was it the
same now that God was dead? Who was ringing
those bells so persistently? They had come very close,
very close to one’s ears . . . they seemed outside
oneself and yet inside one’s brain. Could the Colonel
hear them? Did Jan hear those bells? Jan knew the
tune well —an old Provengal h-ymn: ‘Jesus Christ,
the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the Victim.’

478

Chapter xliii

T hat night came the order to halt on their objective.

In the morning they would go forward again,
but meanwhile — sleep. The men flung themselves
down, some too heavy with weariness to eat until rest
had brought ease to their aching bodies. Those whose
duties would take them to the Listening Posts damned
their luck and looked at the others with envy.

Christophe found himself detailed for a special
patrol, together with five Syrians and two Armenians.
The French Lieutenant in command rubbed his eyes,
for his youth was making him feel extra sleepy. He was
dreaming of a certain immense feather bed into which
he had used to creep with his parents; it still stood
in the corner of a spacious room with blue brocade
walls and a painted ceiling:

‘Bon Dieu,’ he murmured disconsolately, _ ‘how
little one imagines at five years old what is going to
happen to one at twenty!’

The Sergeant was rumbling with soft, rich oaths.
He was dreaming of a world that was guiltless of ver¬
min and Turks alike, above all of patrols undertaken
after a hard day’s fighting. A passing Armenian
dropped an open tin of sardines, and they as precious
as ortolans on toast. The oil splashed over the Ser¬
geant’s boots:

‘Sacree face de verl’ growled the outraged Sergeant.
The Corporal was more patient, he took things as
they came —lice, bugs, Turks, patrols, and even
./^menians. What would you? Life was made up of

479

such trials, they were doubtless the stones on the
path to heaven. However, the Corporal also had
dreams, not the least of which was a brothel in Paris.

Christophe stood and gazed down at Jan; he was
peacefully sleeping with his head on his arm. Sweat
had mingled with the grime and blood on his face, and
the sleeve upon which his cheek rested was bloody.
One hand was clutching his rosary; he must have been
till ing his beads again, for his thumb still marked the
place in a decade. And while he gazed at him Chris¬
tophe was conscious of a curious feeling of desolation,
as though Jan had failed him by falling asleep:

‘Could you not have kept awake for an hour, just
until I had gone?’ he heard himself saying, ‘Surely
you might have kept awake for an hour . . .’ Then he
frowned, ‘I am being unjust,’ he thought, ‘Jan is
utterly spent, that is why he sleeps.’ Yet he felt a
sudden impulse to wake him.

‘Jan!’

But Jan only stirred slightly and sighed, so Chris¬
tophe passed on and left him sleeping.

§2

The Patrol was well beyond the Listening Posts.
It was creeping forward, each man for himself, each
man all eyes, all ears, and all nerves. Every sense
concentrated in eyes and ears, every nerve responding
to the least sound or movement. A few thin clouds
diifted across the moon firom time to time; they
were unexpected, clouds were seldom seen before
the month of October. The light was shifting and
treacherous, the ground difficult and bristling with
pitfalls.

No one spoke, it was not a moment for speaking. The
Armenians and Syrians gripped their rifles. What was
lying in wait for them jmt ahead? The silence was un-

480

canny after the day, but no one could tell when it might
be broken. They kept together as best they could, though
each man was expected to use his own ^wits and par¬
ticularly his own observation. A Syrian slipped and
fell with a thud, it sounded like a cavalry charge; the
men held their breath and stood motionless. Then
the Sergeant hiked the Syrian onto his feet with a
whispered oath, and once more they moved forward.

It was’while they were climbing the side of a slope
that Christophe found himself dropping behind them,
found himself treading with infinite care, scarcely
breathing lest someone should turn and observe him,
and he wondered why he was doing these things. His
brain seemed confused: T shall get lost,’ he thought.
Then quite suddenly: T am already lost, there is
nothing left of me any more — there is nothing left
of Christophe but pity.’

Pity. All his life he had known it, but never until
now had he known it completely, for now it was
clutching him by the soul; his soul was shaken and
rent with pity. Gentle yet terrible it clutched his soul.
There was no escape, for it would not let go. It had
sprung upon him from the grief of the night, from the
tom and bleeding heart of die earth, from the pain of
those helpless and bleeding bodies; it was hurling
itself against his will, overcoming his will and possess¬
ing his reason. Gentle yet terrible with gentleness
it wounded; his soul was a deep and gaping wound,
every wound that he had inflicted was there, the
many made one and as one beheld, and as one en¬
dured, and as one repented; ‘Forgive . . . forgive;’
he prayed d.esperately, ‘you whom I have caused to
suffer, forgive me.’

* * ♦

He was crouching in a shell hole — how had it
happened? No matter, he must crane up and see if

HH 4^1

they had missed him. Apparently not, for they were
moving to the right; that meant that they were working
round the hill. It would be fairly dark on the far
side of the MQ; all the better, his absence would go
unnoticed.

Climb free of the shell hole and creep down the
slope — how easy it was when one’s body obeyed one.
His body had detached itself from him all day; his
body had been unspeakably cruel; and cowairdly too,
it had saved itself, killing others in order that it might
live — Oh, most hateful yet pitiful life of the body.
But how peaceful it was on this wide, quiet plain; the
air smelt sweet like the air in Provence. Perhaps wild
lavender grew near this plain, perhaps the hillsides
were covered with maquis.

Dead men ... it was better to die than to kill.
Two dead men lying stiffly side by side with their
arms and legs sprawled out in the moonlight. Never
mind, it is over now, it is past, you are dead — it is
better to die than to kill. There is only one fear, if
God also is dead. ... Do you think that perhaps it
was you who killed God? Or was it a Provencal
peasant called Christophe? Never mind, it is over
for you now, it is past. Christophe hves and his soul
is one terrible wound ... do you think that it may
have been he who killed you?

But cotdd God be dead when^ the night w^ so
blessM and filled with an inexpressible peace — with a
peace that seemed to pass all understanding? What
if a solffler should die for the world, for the sake of
the gospel of peace, would they mourn him? Would
they turn from their wars? ‘We have slain a just man.
. . .’ But someone had already preached l3ie gospel
of peace and been slain ... a man who was bom
in Judea. ... In Judea, it was, that lliey had cru¬
cified him. Jesus, who had been bom in Bethlehem;
yes, and Anfos had carved Him a lamb for Christmas,

482

then had wanted to play with the lamb himself.
Christmas, the birthday of Jesus Christ . . . Jesus
Christ, the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the Victim.

Something was pressing against his flesh, it was
something that he had almost forgotten; the rood was
pressing against his flesh. He drew it out and stared
at it gravely; then he let it hang loosely around his
neck: ‘If I pass any more dead soldiers,’ he thought,
‘they will see it like this and it may console them,
but I think all the dead are left miles behind ....
Lord, I did not kill them, it was my body.’

And now those bells were begiiming again: ‘Jesus
Christ, the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the Victim.’
Remote and yet near, beyond yet within, they a part
of himself, he a part of their ringing. Ancient bells
that rang out for the youth of the world, for those
who would presently find their Lord concealed in
the fragile disc of the Host. Bells of peace that had
sounded above the groans and the fearful deton¬
ations of war. Bells Aat swung from a belfiy in far
away Provence yet were here on this moonlit Pales¬
tine plain . . . distance did not exist, it was all here
and now, there was neither time, separation nor
distance. Palestine and Provence — names, names,
only names. There was neither Palestine nor Provence,
neither firiend nor foe, neither infidel nor Christian,
but only those ringing, singing beUs: ‘Jesus Christ,
the Shepherd, the Lamb, and the Victim.’

Yet surely his body was once more detached and
no longer the instrument of his being? His body was
doiag such curious things; it was moving with a
stealmy precaution; it was creeping on all fours where
the moon lit its path, then rising warily inch by inch
when it found itself protected by shadows. It was
crawling behind thick patches of scrub, behind rocks,
and when it did this it listened for the sotmd of the
patrol, for the soimd of a shot that would cut like a

483

knife through the silent night. Silent? but the night
was qiiivering with bells: ‘Jesus Christ, the Shepherd,
the Lamb, and the Victim.’

Metal clinked against metal; the silver rood was
clinking against a button of his tunic. Too much
noise, too much noise! A large, muscular hand moved
upward and closed itself over the rood, firmly holding
the cross in position. Then the body paused in a patch
of blue darkness to take off its boots and its blood-
stiffened socks which it carefully hid in some neigh¬
bouring bushes; then it started to move its toes this
way and that with a sigh of relief. There were stones
on the plain yet the ns^ed feet did not feel the stones
— it was good to be once more wearing sandals.

On and on. But how long had that body been
walking? A very long time for the body felt tired, and
it seemed to have lost all sense of direction. The hill
that the patrol had been skirting was gone, it had
suddenly vanished from off the earth — but then
perhaps it had never existed. And the bells were
fainter; so faint they had grown that their txme was
incomplete, notes were missing: ‘Jesus . . . Shepherd,
the Lamb . . breathed the bells; a sofl blur of
indistinct, somnolent sound before that last all but
deafening peal: ‘Jesus Christ, the Shepherd, the Lamb,
and the Victim.’

Rest —the body must rest. It must sit with its
aching head and shoulders supported. It must sit
or drop down on this spot where it stood. But if it
failed now who would speak the words? Someone
called Anfos had known of the words a long time
ago, a lifetime ago: ‘The words! the words! Master,
where are the words?’ ‘What words? I tell you they
do not exist!’ A most cowardly lie, a most danrn-
able lie —the words were the Life, whi.ch alone
existed.

. He groped his way forward and sank to the ground

484

with|his back against a tall, sheltering boulder. It
was dark just here, dark and quiet and immense —
yes, and something else too which he could not
fathom. Where was he? Perhaps he also was dead
like those men who had lain so amazingly s till with
their arms and legs sprawled out in the moonlight.

‘Master, the words!’

‘Hush, Anfos, speak softly. It is time that you
slept, it is growing late. Sleep, Anfos, for sleep is a
comforting thing.’

‘Master, oh, master — the words! the words!’

‘But are not you also a dead man, Anfos? I seem
to remember that Anfos is dead, that he died to
prevent us killing our God. Have we killed our God?
Can God be killed, Anfos?’

Then it came; the illimitable Presence that yet
appeared so strangely familiar. The Elingdom, the
Power, the Shadowless Glory that yet stooped beneath
the burdens of those who were spent, that yet toiled
with the patience of those who toiled, that yet humbled
Itself to the needs of the humble. The Timeless, the
All-Wisdom; the Judge yet the judged; the Consoler
who yet desired consolation.

Christophe dragged himself stiffly onto his knees.
His body was shaken and tom by fear, but his spirit
gazed up into pale, bright eyes that it seemed to have
seen before, to remember.

‘Who are you?’ he gasped. And even as he questioned
he envisaged the pitiful limitations of the mind, for
ever struggling with doubt, for ever seeking to chain
faith to reason — the timid, self-conscious, mistrustful
mind. . . .

‘I am the Indestructible Compassion.’

Then suddenly all the travail of creation, all the
anguish .and doubt, all the fear and blindness being
drawn into one vast, courageous heart: ‘I am the
Indestmctible Compassion.’

485

And now there was passing a mighty concourse of
beings who sought that haven of refuge: those broken
and crushed on the wheel of war — the boy with the
smooth skinned, womanish face; the blue-eyed,
bewildered young German gunner; the man who had
baptized Jan with his blood; the blundering, sorrow¬
ful, kindly Guillaume. Yes, and countless others
ru'^essly slain — most horrible they were because of
their wounds, yet forgiving even as they sought for¬
giveness. And with them came Anfos, the faithful
madman who had died in an effort to save his Creator,
together with those who still suffered the flesh but
whose needs had lent wings to their captive spirits:
Jous^ Benedit and Marie his wife, and the ailing
child that had sprung from their mating; the Cure
who must carry his cross of love; the parents whom
Guillaume had left behind, and who grieved with
the dreary grief of the ageing.

Oh, but they were endless. And now to that throng
were added the inarticulate creatures who groaned
in bondage yet not without hope —who waited in
earnest expectation. The beasts who had laid down
their lives in battle, who had patiently suffered for
the sins of their masters; Mirmo, her gaunt flanks
covered with sores, yet with God in the eyes that she
turned upon Christophe; the starving mongrels that
Christophe had fed. Aye, and even 1±.e battered and
bleeding couleuvres whose stripes he had once been
privileged to endure in union with One who Himself
had been scourged for teaching the blessM gospel of
mercy.

And kneeling before this supreme revelation, the
past became clearly illumined for Christophe. It was
this that he had been asked to share, it was this that
he had divined with his spirit, it was this from which
he had sought to escape, it was this that his quaking
flesh had rejected,

486

Christophe signed himself with the cross of his
Lord, then he struck his breast with the strokes of
contrition: ‘My God, I have turned You away many
times because I feared, and once I denied You. And
my hands are guilty ... do not look at them. Lord.
Have pity and do not look at my hands, only show
me how I may make reparation. Lord, I am not
any more afraid. . . .’ And even as he spoke the
Presence moved nearer.

And now It seemed to engulf him entirely, the while
It was being Itself engulfed and drawn into the fleshly
form.of Its creature. At that moment Christophe
knew all the sorrows of the world, all the sorrow of
God, but also the joy of God’s selfless and all-embracing
love, in that terrible, that triumphant communion.

* * *

He had thrown away his rifle and was walking
through the moonlight on a track that led over the
plain to the northward. He was taking no heed where
his feet should tread, yet he knew that somewhere
beyond lay a well, and that once long ago he had
drunk of its water. He was holding the silver rood in
his hands. He had slipped the chain of it from his neck
and was holding the cross up before his face, a small
cross and yet it seemed strangely heavy. He had
borne such a burden as this once before, but then it
had rested upon his scourged shoulder.

The moon had dropped behind the low hills; it
was dark yet he neither faltered nor stumbled. He
remembered this darkness that came prior to the dawn;
it was chilly and always intensely silent. But where
were they, those whom he had come forth to seek
bearing the silver rood in his hands? Surely they could
not have fled away in fear before this emblem of
peace? Follow ... he must follow until he found
them.

487

The darkness was lifting; a faint, nebulous colour
was spreading quietly over the landscape, a faint
breeze was stirring the hair on his brow. Listen . . .
what was that sound to the left? He stood motionless
staring towards the sound. And surely that was a low
white wall with a few poor, straggling buildings
behind it, and beyond those again a close huddle of
roofs? More sounds ... the sudden wail of a child
over there among that huddle of roofs; then wheels
and a short, sharp word of command. Were they
evacuating the village? Did it actually lie in the line
of the troops? It must lie in the line of those oncoming
troops; and with them . . . who was it that mattered
so much, that had always mattered because greatly
loved and greatly loving? Jan, it was Jan . . . love
alone could unveil the eyes of the Spirit. A small
point of light that flashed out through the gloom for
a moment — someone was lighting a lantern.

He had turned from the track and was walking
swiftly towards that dim but incautious glimmer.
His arms were thrust forward and his hands clasped
the rood as though they were clasping a most
precious gift, a priceless gift, ‘We are coming,’ he
whispered.

And now he had reached the dejected outskirts of
the place and was conscious that he was speaking.
He could hear his own stumbling, choking words;
they amazed him, they sounded very like madness,
but a madness so sublime that his soul leapt and sang:

‘I am Christophe. I have come to ask your for¬
giveness. With these hands of mine I have killed our
brothers, and yet with these hands I now bring you
God’s peace — the peace that passes all understanding.
I have come first to you whom I have most wronged,
but presently I will go out into the world so that the
world may be healed by my message. In the name of
Jesus Chnst lay down your arms. He is here, and

^88

He tells us to love one another, for our wounds are
His wounds. . . . Look, I am unarmed because I
am you and you are me, we are one and the same
and that one is Christ, and Christ is the Indestructible
Compassion. God so loves the world that He gives
Himself. . . .’

They had tom the silver rood from his grasp.
There were five of them, ragged and starving men
demented by blood and appalled by defeat. And no
word of it aU had they understood — he had spoken
to them in his Provencal language. They surrounded
him, dragging him to the ground, then they spat in
his face and one of them struck him. And they
stripped off his shabby and war-stained clothes,
wrenching them roughly away from his body; and all
the while they spat in his face, and one after another
they cursed him and struck hiim. For a moment he
tightened his splendid muscles, flinging off the fore¬
most of his tormentors; then he suddenly lay quiet
under their hands and they heard him speaking as
though to himself: T am the Indestructible Com¬
passion.’

Someone had opened a door quite near him; he
could smell the familiar fragrance of timber, and the
pungent odour of planks newly plcined. He thought:
*1 am home again in Saint Loup; I am glad to be
back with my mother and father. Soon I shall see
that very old woman: I am going to be taken to see her
by Goundran.’ And he closed his eyes, smiling con¬
tentedly; so happy it was to be once more a cMd, so
happy and guiltless and safe it was to be waiting there
for the coming of Goundran.

A man had passed in through that open door and
had come out again, having found what he needed.
They had locked the door; Chiistophe lay wondering
why — his father so seldom locked his workshop. They
were lifting him up. He was heavy to move. Tney were

489

forcing his body against the door and straining the
fing ers back from his palms, so that the palms lay
exposed and helpless. An unendurable pain in his
hands, in his feet — an unendurable pain.

‘Lord, if You are with me still do not stay ... do
not suffer. . . .’ But the words sank down and were
lost in a bottomless pit of physical anguish.

His head moved quickly from side to side as though
he were trying to see those hands, to comprehend the
cause of such suffering. Then it drooped as though
he would see his feet and look on the rood they had
nailed beneath them. But presently he became very
still and his dying eyes gazed out to the east —to
the east where the flaming, majestic dawn rose over
the world like a resurrection.

490