Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XV. John
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“I have nothing else to give him,” she sobbed,
“I wish I had something to give him to take
with him from me!”
“I think he would like to take this with him,”
said I taking the diamond brooch from my pocket
and pinning it to his pillow. “It belonged to his
mother.”
She did not utter a sound, she stretched out
her arms towards her child and fell senseless on
the floor. I lifted her up and laid her on Rosalie’s
bed, screwed on the lid of the coffin and drove to
the Bureau des Pompes Funèbres in Place de la
Madeleine. I had a private interview with the
undertaker, alas, we had met before. I
authorized him to spend any sum he liked if the coffin
could be put on board an English yacht in the
harbour of Calais the next night. He said it
could be done if I promised not to look at the
bill. I said nobody would look at the bill. I
then drove to the Hôtel du Rhin, woke up the
colonel and told him his wife wished the yacht to
be in Calais in twelve hours. While he wrote
out the telegram to the captain I sat down to
write a hurried note to his wife that the coffin
would be on board their yacht in Calais harbour
the next night. I added in a postscript that I
had to leave Paris early in the morning, and this
was to bid her good-bye.
I have seen John’s grave, he lies buried in the
little churchyard of one of the most beautiful
parish churches in Kent. Primroses and violets
were growing on his grave, and blackbirds were
singing over his head. I have never seen his
mother again. Better so.
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