He did not answer. He was dead.
'Alone, sitting in the sunshine, apparently without a struggle or a
pang, the soul of the old soldier had departed. Whither? We know not.
But--smile if you will, madame--I trust he is with his Emperor.'
I did not smile; my eyes were too full of tears.
'I buried him, as he wished,' continued Father Piret, 'in his old
uniform, with the picture of Napoleon laid on his breast, the sabre by
his side, and the withered sprig in his lifeless hand. He lies in our
little cemetery on the height, near the shadow of the great cross; the
low white board tablet at the head of the mound once bore the words
Grenadier Jacques, but the rains and the snows have washed away the
painted letters. It is as well.'
The priest paused, and we both looked toward the empty bench, as
though we saw a figure seated there, staff in hand. After a time my
little hostess came out on to the piazza, and we all talked together
of the island and its past. 'My boat is waiting,' said Father Piret at
length; 'the wind is fair, and I must return to the Chenaux to-night.
This near departure is my excuse for coming twice in one day to see
you, madame.
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