The fact is, Gabriel, my
own wits must have been a little shaken--and no wonder--by what I
went through last night, and what I have come home to this
morning. As if you, or anybody, could ever really give serious
credit to the wandering speeches of a dying old man! (Where is
Perrine? Why did you send her away?) I don't wonder at your still
looking a little startled, and feeling low in your mind, and all
that--for you've had a trying night of it, trying in every way.
He must have been a good deal shaken in his wits last night,
between fears about himself and fears about me. (To think of my
being angry with you, Gabriel, for being a little alarmed--very
naturally--by an old man's queer fancies!) Come out,
Perrine--come out of the bedroom whenever you are tired of it:
you must learn sooner or later to look at death calmly. Shake
hands, Gabriel; and let us make it up, and say no more about what
has passed. You won't? Still angry with me for what I said to you
just now? Ah! you'll think better about it by the time I return.
Come out, Perrine; we've no secrets here."
"Where are you going to?" asked Gabriel, as he saw his father
hastily open the door.
"To tell the priest that one of his congregation is dead, and to
have the death registered," answered Francois. "These are _my_
duties, and must be performed before I take any rest."
He went out hurriedly as he said these words.
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