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Updated: June 8, 2025
Next, turning to me, my master went on: "Tournebroche, my son, we may congratulate ourselves on having brought this strange adventure to a good end. But I have left my hat down yonder on the river bank; albeit it has lost pretty near all its lace and is thread-bare with long service, it was still good to guard my old head, sorely tried by years and labours, against sun and rain.
"I don't know," replied my dear tutor: "it's their business, not ours. But let me finish the Arabian tale, which is full of sense. You've interrupted me inconsiderately, Tournebroche, at the very moment when the damsel, looking up, discovered the two princes in the tree.
Jacques Tournebroche, if you listen well to my sayings, you will not consume yourself in miserable cares to become an honest man in a worldly sense, and you'll exclusively study to satisfy divine justice."
"Bleeding? I'm a dead man. He has killed me. I thought that it was but a blow with the fist. But it's a wound, and I feel that I shall never recover from it." "Who struck you, my dear tutor?" "It was the Jew. I did not see him, but I know it was he. How can I know that it was the Jew, when I did not see him? Yes; how is it? What strange things! It's not to be believed, is it, Tournebroche?
"Yes; why did I shout?" he said, in a new and altered voice. "I did not know I had cried out. Tournebroche, did you not see a man? He struck me in the dark, very fiercely; he gave me a blow with his fist." "Come," I said to him, "get up, my dear master." Having risen he fell back heavily on the ground. I tried to raise him, and my hands became moist when I touched his breast. "You're bleeding!"
But I beg of you not to kill my pupil, Jacques Tournebroche." "Ouf!" exclaimed Catherine, arranging the lace of her chemise on her bosom. "Now I feel easier." "Abbe," replied M. d'Anquetil, "honour compels me to do it." But my kind-hearted tutor went on: "Sir, Jacques Tournebroche is very useful to me for the translation, I have undertaken, of Zosimus the Panopolitan.
I have the taste of death in my mouth, which cannot be defined. It was to be, my God! But why rather here than somewhere else? That's the mystery! 'Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini Domine exaudi orationem meam " For a short time he prayed in a low voice, then: "Tournebroche, my son," he said to me, "take the two bottles I found in the coach and have placed here beside me. I can do no more.
"What!" broke out my good master. "Mosaide has killed a Christian? He is dangerous, my dear Tournebroche. You'll have to come to the same conclusion that I have arrived at myself about this adventure. It is quite certain that his niece is the mistress of M. d'Asterac, whose room she doubtless had just left when I met her on the stairs.
Tournebroche, where do you think the wound is? It's in the back I suffer most, and it seems to me that life runs out by the legs. My spirits are going." Murmuring these words he fainted softly in my arms. I tried to carry him, but I had only strength enough to lay him lengthwise on the ground. Opening his shirt, I discovered the wound; it was in the breast; very small, and bleeding little.
I asked my teacher if it was possible that a disguise could have such an effect on nature and if the shape of the child could follow that of a garment. M. Jerome Coignard advised me not to believe it. "Jacques Tournebroche, my son," he said, "remember always that a good mind repels all that is contrary to reason, except in matters of faith, wherein it is convenient to believe implicitly.
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