Baudet had worked diligently in the vestry for a whole week, copying the words Father Philippe had written for him, embellishing the letters according to his fancy and giving each card an illuminated border. The priest had, on purpose, left his pupil to concentrate on his task, without interruption, until he was invited to pass an opinion.
“I’ve finished, Father.” He had cleared away the calligraphic implements and arranged the five cards side by side. Taking a step back from the desk, he stood still, gazing with anticipation at Philippe who leaned over the handiwork then, closer, as if he were smelling the ink, or so it seemed to Baudet.
“Be quick, won’t you! What’s your verdict?” But the waiting did not end. The priest picked up one card after another, delicately holding each by the oi
