He rose stiffly and feebly, and stood leaning against the end of the bed.
“What is that which continually goes past the window, Jean?”
“Birds, Monseigneur—only little birds.”
Luc smiled.
“Indeed, I cannot see them, Jean.”
The servant waited, not looking at his master. Presently Luc gave a little nod of dismissal, and Jean returned to the outer room.
Luc decided not to go to the chapel. He had thought that the dark, cool spaces, the nuns behind their grille, the subdued singing might bring him fortitude and peace; but now he rejected that idea as weakness.
He had also wished to inquire after Carola Koklinska before he left the convent. Yet to what purpose? She was lost to the world, and her name had not passed his lips once during the brief agony of his illness and the long agony of his convalescence.
He recalled his last interview with her and his words, “If I am stricken, pray that I may die.”
And now his worst horror had been realized, and he was cast back on life to die slowly from day to day—an object of disgust and pity. He knew, though no one else had been told, that he had not very long to live. The doctor gave him a few years—five, or six, or seven.