"Cry, then ..." said Gottfried. "Cry!" He also was weeping. When he was a little comforted Jean-Christophe dried his eyes and looked at Gottfried. Gottfried understood that he wanted to ask something. "No," he said, putting a finger to his lips, "you must not talk. It is good to cry, bad to talk." The boy insisted. "It is no good." "Only one thing--only one!..." "What?" Jean-Christophe hesitated. "Oh, uncle!" he asked, "where is he now?" Gottfried answered: "He is with the Lord, my boy." But that was not what Jean-Christophe had asked. "No; you do not understand. Where is he--he _himself_?" (He meant the body.) He went on in a trembling voice: "Is _he_ still in the house?" "They buried the good man this morning," said Gottfried. "Did you not hear the bells?" Jean-Christophe was comforted. Then, when he thought that he would never see his beloved grandfather again, he wept once more bitterly. "Poor little beast!" said Gottfried, looking pityingly at the child. Jean-Christophe expected Gottfried to console him, but Gottfried made no attempt to do so, knowing that it was useless. "Uncle Gottfried," asked the boy, "are not you afraid of it, too?" (Much did he wish that Gottfried should not have been afraid, and would tell him the secret of it!) "'Ssh!" he said, in a troubled voice.... "And how is one not to be afraid?" he said, after a moment. "But what can one do? It is so. One must put up with it." Jean-Christophe shook his head in protest. "One has to put up with it, my boy," said Gottfried. "_He_ ordered it up yonder. One has to love what _He_ has ordered." "I hate Him!" said Jean-Christophe, angrily shaking his fist at the sky. Gottfried fearfully bade him be silent. Jean-Christophe himself was afraid of what he had just said, and he began to pray with Gottfried. But blood boiled, and as he repeated the words of servile humility and resignation there was in his inmost heart a feeling of passionate revolt and horror of the abominable thing and the monstrous Being who had been able to create it. Days passed and nights of rain over the freshly-turned earth under which lay the remains of poor old Jean Michel. At the moment Melchior wept and cried and sobbed much, but the week was not out before Jean-Christophe heard him laughing heartily. When the name of the dead man was pronounced in his presence, his face grew longer and a lugubrious expression came into it, but in a moment he would begin to talk and gesticulate excitedly. He was sincerely afflicted, but it was impossible for him to remain sad for long. Louisa, passive and resigned, accepted the misfortune as she accepted everything. She added a prayer to her daily prayers; she went regularly to the cemetery, and cared for the grass as if it were part of her household.