Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - II - VIII
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“Yes.”
“Anatole is better than you think,” said
the Curé, “but maybe you are right.”
Anatole was delighted, and having
successfully passed a rapid examination as to his
knowledge of the road, he was sent down to
the kitchen to get something to eat and to
tell the boy he was not needed.
* *
The Doctor went into the church for his
last round.
The lugubrious work, delayed by all that
had happened, had been going on while he
was asleep in the sacristy, and the
death-harvest for the night and the day had been
gathered. The luthier, the blind soldier,
Josephine’s boy, the gardener who was such
a hand at flowers, the Bavarian giant who
had given his life in exchange for a kind
word—they were all gone, these and many
others who had surrendered at last to the
Invincible Foe.
“Good-bye Josephine! I have only
known you for thirty-six hours, but I shall
never forget you! I feel as if I wanted to
give you something, Josephine, but I have
got nothing to give. This is no longer of
any use to me,” said he, taking the brassard
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