Many a night Victor and Breton were
compelled to use force to hold the sick man on his mattress. He
horrified the nuns at evening prayer by shouting for wine, calling the
main at dice, or singing a camp song. At other times his laughter
broke the quiet of midnight or the stillness of dawn. But never in all
his ravings did he mention the marquis or the tragedy of the last rout.
Some secret consciousness locked his lips. Sometimes Brother Jacques
entered the berthroom and applied cold cloths, and rarely the young
priest failed to quiet the patient. Often Victor came in softly to
find the Chevalier sleeping that restless sleep of the fever-bound and
the priest, a hand propping his chin, lost in reverie. One night
Victor had been up with the Chevalier. The berthroom was close and
stifling. He left the invalid in Breton's care and sought the deck for
a breath of air, cold and damp though it was. Glancing up, he saw
Brother Jacques pacing the poop-deck, his hands clasped behind him, his
head bent forward, absorbed in thought. Victor wondered about this
priest. A mystery enveloped his beauty, his uncommunicativeness.
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