How strange was that expectation! We knew so well what the word must be;
we could tell exactly the moment of the knock of the door, the deep
sound of the priest's voice, the embracings and dropping of wax over
every one's clothes that would follow it--and yet every year it was the
same! There _was_ truth in it, there was some deep response to the human
dependence, some whispered promise of a future good. We waited there,
our hearts beating, crowded against the dark walls. It was a very
democratic assembly, bourgeoisie, workmen, soldiers, officers, women in
evening dress and peasant women with shawls over their heads. No one
spoke or whispered.
Suddenly there was a knock. The door was opened. The priest stood there,
in his crimson and gold. "Christ is risen!" he cried, his voice
vibrating as though he had indeed but just now, out there in the dark
and wind, made the great discovery.
"He is risen indeed!" came the reply from us all. Markovitch embraced
me. "Let us go," he whispered, "I can't bear it somehow to-night."
We went out. Everywhere the bells were ringing--the wonderful deep boom
of St.
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