Then Marie, thinking that she would gain my interest thereby, began telling me the news of the place:
"That poor Monsieur the curé is dead, you know. The new one in his place don't seem to be getting ahead at all, he is too young and anxious.... Baptiste has been crushed to death by a tree."
I interrupted her:
"All right, all right, Marie.... You'll tell me about it tomorrow."
She took me to my bedroom and asked:
"Shall I bring you a bowl of milk, Monsieur Jean?"
"If you please!"
And closing the door, I flung myself on the lounge and sobbed for a long, long time.
The next day I got up at dawn.... The Priory had not changed much: there was only more grass in the alleys, more moss on the steps, and a few trees were dead. Again I saw the gate, the scurfy lawn, the puny looking sorbs, the aged chestnut trees. Again I saw the basin where the little kitten had been shot, the curtain of fir trees which hid the commons from view, the abandoned study; I saw the park, its twisted trees and stone benches that looked like ancient tombs.... In the kitchen garden Felix was digging a border bed for flowers.... Ah! poor man, how battered his frame was!
He showed me a hawthorn and said: