Le Colonial Read Online Free PDF

love for you is over. I am no longer amused by a boy’s inexperience.
    Soon his ears were filled with the whispers of strangers. It seemed other people were coming and going, talking to him and about him. He tried to listen to their words. The voices coalesced and dispersed until all became one, belonging to the Jesuit monsignor. It sounded far away, distorted, and strangely elongated.
François
. . . He heard the hissing repetitions of his name, full of entreaty and despair.
Pray, pray! François! We beg mercy in His glory, forever
.
    The blur in his mind abated, and his delirium took physical form. The whispers became dark shadows of people moving swiftly against a wall. Of his whereabouts he was uncertain, but he could see that he was lying on a simple bed in a dimly lit, high-vaulted, cavernous tower. A black curtain shielded him from the rest of the hall. His body seemed light.
François
. . . The whisper returned; then the voice materialized.
    “Very glad to see you are recovering, François Gervaise.”
    He turned and beheld the face of Monsignor de Béhaine, like parchment suspended in a wan halo of light. Behind the priest, the window was curtained, but through a small opening, a few sunbeams poured forth a sliver of radiance. The monsignor towered over him. François burst into tears.
    “Where am I?” he asked between sobs. His thin shoulders shook like the wings of a chick. He realized that he was without clothes. From under the bedspread, he caught the odor of his own excrement.
    The monsignor seated himself on the windowsill. He removed his white gloves and pressed them neatly across his knee. Then he rolled up his long sleeves. François could not see the expression on his face. His voice, however, was gentle.
    “We are inside the charterhouse of Val-de-Bénédiction. The city is suffering an outbreak of cholera. You are being quarantined for observation.” He scanned the room and added, “And so are they. For many of them, death is very near.”
    “How long have I been here, Father?” asked François.
    “Three days! I did my best to stay by your side.”
    François wept into his hands, overwhelmed by the attention the priest had reserved for him. “Dear sir, you should not have risked your life to save mine. I am not worthy of your concern,” he said.
    The priest leaned forward and rummaged through a casket that was set against the wall next to him. From it he drew forth a glass bottle of colorless liquid and poured some of its contents over his arms and hands. The smell of vinegar exploded in the air.
    “Through these hands of mine,” the priest said, “God has performed many miracles. Your survival is just one of many. Since childhood I have been blessed with the power to heal. With the angels in heaven watching over me, I fear nothing. You would not believe, sir, what deep solace it gives me to see you well. But you must be exhausted. I shall leave you alone to rest, as there are many others in this hall who need my services. We can talk more when I return for a visit this evening. One of the monks will bring you a basin of water so you can wash yourself. I have retrieved your belongings and placed everything on the floor next to you. The clothes you were wearing had to be burned, so you will need to put on fresh garments.
    “In your delirium many times you shouted out a name in great distress. Helene!” A twinkle of malice crept into de Béhaine’s eyes as he leaned forward and read François’s expression. “She must be someone important. Who is she, Monsieur Gervaise? A ghost of your unruly past, perhaps?”
    Without waiting for François to answer, he put on a wide, stiff-brimmed hat and walked away.
    The hall was silent except for an occasional moan. No doubt the others were also lost in frightful dreams.
    He cursed his vulnerable condition. How much of himself had he revealed during his delirium? How much of his shame was made public? François rested his head and again felt himself