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"The bishop himself had to go to Hiva-oa from here, because there were really not enough people left alive for the seat of his bishopric. At least, there will be some here when I die, for I am old. Ah, thirty years ago, when I came here, there were souls to be saved! Thousands of them. But I love the last one. There are still a hundred left on Huapu.
He fell into a reverie, scratching his legs after the nonos and letting his cigarette go out. I arose to depart. He must go to Huapu with the chief, who was again at the door, "And did the fête help the parish?" I asked with that bromidic zeal to please that so often discloses the fly just when the ointment's smell is sweetest. "Alas!" he replied, with a sorrowful shake of his beard.
Then he presented me to a Marquesan man at his side, "Le chef de l'isle de Huapu," who was waiting to escort him to that island that he might say mass and hear confession. The chief was for leaving at once, and Père Simeon lamented that he had no time in which to talk to me.
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