“’Then, monsieur, I began to kill children
played a trick on Him. He did not get those.
It was not He, but I! And I would have killed
many others, but you caught me. There!
“’I was to be executed. I! How
He would have laughed! Then I asked for a priest,
and I lied. I confessed to him. I lied and
I lived.
“’Now, all is over. I can no longer
escape from Him. I no longer fear Him, monsieur;
I despise Him too much.’
“This poor wretch was frightful to see as he
lay there gasping, opening an enormous mouth in order
to utter words which could scarcely be heard, his
breath rattling, picking at his bed and moving his
thin legs under a grimy sheet as though trying to
escape.
“Oh! The mere remembrance of it is frightful!
“‘You have nothing more to say?’
I asked.
“‘No, monsieur.’
“‘Then, farewell.’
“‘Farewell, monsieur, till some day——’
“I turned to the ashen-faced priest, whose dark
outline stood out against the wall, and asked:
‘Are you going to stay here, Monsieur l’Abbe?’
“‘Yes.’
“Then the dying man sneered: ’Yes,
yes, He sends His vultures to the corpses.’
“I had had enough of this. I opened the
door and ran away.”
We lived formerly in a little house beside the high
road outside the village. He had set up in business
as a wheelwright, after marrying the daughter of a
farmer of the neighborhood, and as they were both
industrious, they managed to save up a nice little
fortune. But they had no children, and this caused
them great sorrow. Finally a son was born, whom
they named Jean. They both loved and petted him,
enfolding him with their affection, and were unwilling
to let him be out of their sight.
When he was five years old some mountebanks passed
through the country and set up their tent in the town
hall square.
Jean, who had seen them pass by, made his escape from
the house, and after his father had made a long search
for him, he found him among the learned goats and
trick dogs, uttering shouts of laughter and sitting
on the knees of an old clown.
Three days later, just as they were sitting down to
dinner, the wheelwright and his wife noticed that
their son was not in the house. They looked for
him in the garden, and as they did not find him, his
father went out into the road and shouted at the top
of his voice, “Jean!”
Night came on. A brown vapor arose making distant
objects look still farther away and giving them a
dismal, weird appearance. Three tall pines, close
at hand, seemed to be weeping. Still there was
no reply, but the air appeared to be full of indistinct
sighing. The father listened for some time, thinking
he heard a sound first in one direction, then in another,
and, almost beside himself, he ran, out into the night,
calling incessantly “Jean! Jean!”
