Brother

For two weeks Brother Jacques lay silent on his cot; lay with an apathy
which alarmed the good brothers of the Order. He spoke to no one, and
no sound swerved his dull gaze from the whitewashed ceiling of his
little room in the college. Only one man could solve the mystery of
this apathy, the secret of this insensibility, and his lips were sealed
as securely as the door of a donjon-keep: Jehan. Not even the
Chevalier could gather a single ray of light from the grim old valet.
He was silence itself.

Two weeks, and then Brother Jacques rose, put on his gown and his
rosary and his shovel-shaped hat. The settlers, soldiers, trappers and
seigneurs saw him walk alone, day after day, along the narrow winding
streets, his chin in his collar, his shoulders stooped, his hands
clasped behind his back. It was only when some child asked him for a
blessing that he raised his eyes and smiled. Sometimes the snow beat
down upon him with blinding force and the north winds cut like the lash
of the Flagellants. He heeded not; winter set no chill upon his flesh.
One morning he resolved to go forth upon his expiation. He made up his
pack quietly. Drawn by an irresistible, occult force, he wandered into
the room of the château where the tragedy had occurred. . . . The
letter! He felt in the pocket of his gown. He drew a stool to the
window which gave upon the balcony overlooking the lower town and the
river, and sat down.