He replied kindly, almost apologetically, “I did not mean to.”
Ah, I might well be proud of myself! That strength which I dreaded had entreated instead of breaking me: it had not conquered me.
He laid his hand on my head, no doubt to clear my mind of any mistaken interpretation of his former act, and though he did not lean hard upon it, I felt it heavy upon me. A few years earlier, grandfather, by the same imposition of hands, had invested me with the ownership of all nature.
“Let us go back,” said my father. “Let us go back to the house.”
He said “the house,” like me. Until then the expression had been too familiar to make an impression. This time it did impress me.
On the homeward way we heard the detonations of small cannon, fired in honour of the elections.
“So soon!” he said. “The Martinod list is elected.”
The frustration of his public hopes had followed hard upon his paternal disappointment. For a moment he bowed his head, but it was only for a moment.
The church bell of a neighbouring village rang the Angelus. Another replied, and then another, breathing over all the country-side the serenity of evening and of prayer.
My father stood still to listen, and he smiled. Through this peaceful reminder of the Annunciation God was speaking to him, and through it he regained composure.