Chapter 12

           

           ForalongtimethatnightPrincessMarysatbytheopenwindowofherroomhearingthesoundofthepeasants’voicesthatreachedherfromthevillage,butitwasnotofthemshewasthinking.Shefeltthatshecouldnotunderstandthemhowevermuchshemightthinkaboutthem.Shethoughtonlyofonething,hersorrow,which,afterthebreakcausedbycaresforthepresent,seemedalreadytobelongtothepast.Nowshecouldrememberitandweeporpray.

           Aftersunsetthewindhaddropped.Thenightwascalmandfresh.Towardmidnightthevoicesbegantosubside,acockcrowed,thefullmoonbegantoshowfrombehindthelimetrees,afreshwhitedewymistbegantorise,andstillnessreignedoverthevillageandthehouse.

           Picturesofthenearpast—herfather’sillnessandlastmoments—roseoneafteranothertohermemory.Withmournfulpleasureshenowlingeredovertheseimages,repellingwithhorroronlythelastone,thepictureofhisdeath,whichshefeltshecouldnotcontemplateeveninimaginationatthisstillandmystichourofnight.Andthesepicturespresentedthemselvestohersoclearlyandinsuchdetailthattheyseemednowpresent,nowpast,andnowfuture.

           ShevividlyrecalledthemomentwhenhehadhisfirststrokeandwasbeingdraggedalongbyhisarmpitsthroughthegardenatBaldHills,mutteringsomethingwithhishelplesstongue,twitchinghisgrayeyebrowsandlookinguneasilyandtimidlyather.

           “Eventhenhewantedtotellmewhathetoldmethedayhedied,”shethought.“Hehadalwaysthoughtwhathesaidthen.

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