time! . . . Ah! Monsieur Jean! . . . What a handsome young man you are! . . ."
Then Marie, thinking that she would gain my interest thereby, began telling me the news of the place:
"That poor Monsieur the cure is dead, you know. The new one in his place don't seem to be getting ahead at all, he is too young and anxious. . . . Baptiste has been crushed to death by a tree."
I interrupted her:
"All right, all right, Marie. . . . You'll tell me about it tomorrow."
She took me to my bedroom and asked:
"Shall I bring you a bowl of milk, Monsieur Jean?"
"If you please!"
And closing the door, I flung myself on the lounge and sobbed for a long, long time.
The next day I got up at dawn. . . . The Priory had not changed much: there was only more grass in the alleys, more moss on the steps, and a few trees were dead. Again I saw the gate, the scurfy lawn, the puny looking sorbs, the aged chestnut trees. Again I saw the basin where the little kitten had been shot, the curtain of fir trees which hid the commons from view, the abandoned study; I saw the park, its twisted trees and stone benches that looked like ancient tombs. . . . In the kitchen garden Felix was digging a border bed for flowers. . . . Ah! poor man, how battered his frame was!
He showed me a hawthorn and said:
"That is where you used to come with your poor deceased father to lie in wait for the blackbirds. . . . Do you remember, Monsieur Jean?"
"Yes, yes, Felix!"
"And also the thrush?"
"Yes, yes, Felix!"
I walked away. I could not bear the sight of this
