For a long while he remained there. Forehead to the ground. Arms outstretched like a cross. As though he were digging within himself for something deeper than words. Then, at last, he slowly rose. He did not spring up. He climbed back up from the ground the way one climbs from the bottom of a well. He crossed himself. Slowly. Every gesture weighed, almost painful.
When he turned, his eyes met those of Louis and Françoise-Esther. They were not red. They did not shine. But something had changed. There was neither pride nor shame in them. Only a grave peace, and a solitude accepted.