It lay in hers absolutely passive and cold, so
cold. The priest raised the lamp till the light shone full upon the face
of the sleeper. Sleeping she was indeed, the last long sleep from which
not they, not Philippe, not anyone could waken her.
Father Anselm laid his hand on the head of the stricken girl and said
gently:
"A moment ago, my child, you prayed that God might spare her. He had
granted your prayer even before it was uttered. We need not tell her now
for she has learned it all from One who could tell it far more gently,
far more mercifully than we could."
The sound of shuffling steps, as of men who carried a heavy burden, came
up to them from the gravel walk below.
"Requiescant in pace," whispered the priest.
Cecile knelt as if turned to stone. Mechanically, she listened to the
voice of the priest reciting the De Profundis; she listened to the call
of the crickets shrilling through the summer night without; she listened
to the heart-breaking sobs of faithful black Mandy crouching on the
floor by the side of her "li'l Missy;" she listened to those shuffling
footsteps as they entered the house, slowly mounted the staircase and
paused at the door of what had once been Philippe's room.
Yet again the priest's voice recited:
"Requiescant in pace."
And this time, Cecile, laying her cheek upon the dear cold hand she held
in hers, responded brokenly:
"Amen.
Pages:
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147