Gods are Athirst

<h2>XXIII</h2> <p><ANTIMG class="figleft" style="width: 96px; height: 106px;" alt="Initial É" title="É" src="images/letee.png" />variste Gamelin was worn out and could not rest; twenty times in the night he would awake with a start from a sleep haunted by nightmares. It was only in the blue chamber, in Élodie's arms, that he could snatch a few hours' slumber. He talked and cried out in his sleep and used often to awake her; but she could make nothing of what he said.</p> <p>One morning, after a night when he had seen the Eumenides, he started awake, broken with terror and weak as a child. The dawn was piercing the window curtains with its wan arrows. Évariste's hair, lying tangled on his brow, covered his eyes with a black veil; Élodie, by the bedside, was gently parting the wild locks. She was looking at him now, with a sister's tenderness, while with her handkerchief she wiped away the icy sweat from the unhappy man's forehead. Then he remembered that fine scene in the <i>Orestes</i> of Euripides, which he had essayed to represent in a picture that, if he could have finished it, would have been his masterpiece&#8212;the scene where the unhappy Electra wipes away the spume that sullies her brother's lips. And he seemed to hear Élodie also saying in a gentle voice:</p> <p>"Hear me, beloved brother, while the Furies leave you master of your reason ..."</p> <p>And he thought:</p> <p>"And yet I am no parricide. Far from it, it is filial piety has made me shed the tainted blood of the enemies of my fatherland."</p> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />