From time to time he held up his
white hands and let the sun incarnadine them. He spoke to no one,
though when Victor sat beside him he smiled. On the second day he
feebly expressed a desire for some one to read to him.
"What shall I read, Paul?" asked Victor, joyously.
"You will find my Odyssey in the berthroom. Read me of Ulysses when he
finally arrived at Ithaca and found Penelope still faithful."
"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, who overheard the request, "would you not
rather I should read to you from the life of Loyola?"
"No, Father," gently; "I am still pagan enough to love the thunder of
Homer."
"If only I might convince you of the futility of such books!" earnestly.
"Nothing is futile, Father, which is made of grace and beauty."
So Victor read from the immortal epic. He possessed a fine voice, and
being a musician he knew how to use it. The voice of his friend and
the warmth of the sun combined to produce a pleasant drowsiness to
which the Chevalier yielded, gratefully. That night he slept soundly.
The following day was not without a certain glory. The wind was mild
and gentle like that which springs up suddenly during a summer's
twilight and breathes mysteriously among the tops of the pines or stirs
a murmur in the fields of grain.
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