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There was no service in the Swedish church the
next day, the chaplain had been taken suddenly
ill the evening before, too late for finding a
substitute. I went at once to his house Place des
Ternes, his wife said she was just going to send
for me. The chaplain had returned home the
evening before in an almost fainting condition,
he looked as if he had seen a ghost, said his wife.
Perhaps he has seen one, thought I, as I went
to his room. He said he had just begun to tell
Mamsell Agata his errand, he had expected her
to be very angry, but instead of that she had
only smiled at him. Suddenly he noticed a most
peculiar smell in the room, he felt as if he was
going to faint, he was sure it was the smell.
“No,” said I, “it was the smile.”
I ordered him to remain in bed till I called
again, he asked what on earth was the matter
with him, I said I did not know—this was
not true, I knew quite well, I recognized the
symptoms.
“By the bye,” said I, as I stood up to go, “I
wish you would tell me something about Lazarus,
you who are a chaplain surely know more about
him than I do. Isn’t there an old legend. . . .”
“Lazarus,” said the chaplain in a feeble voice,
“was the man who returned alive to his dwelling
house from his grave where for three days and
nights he had lain under the sway of death.
There is no doubt about the miracle, he was seen
by Mary and Martha and many of his former
friends.”
“I wonder what he looked like?”
“The legend says that the destruction wrought
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