She would shake his arm. A voice would cry:
“Eh, what’s the matter with you? You are mad, quite mad. Why do you look at me like that? Why don’t you answer?”
Once more he would see the eyes looking at him. Who was it? … Ah! yes. … He would sigh.
She would watch him. She would try to discover what he was thinking of. She did not understand: but she felt that it was useless: that she could not keep hold of him, that there was always a door by which he could escape. She would conceal her irritation.
“Why are you crying?” she asked him once as he returned from one of his strange journeys into another life.
He drew his hands across his eyes. He felt that they were wet.
“I do not know,” he said.
“Why don’t you answer? Three times you have said the same thing.”
“What do you want?” he asked gently.
She went back to her absurd discussions. He waved his hand wearily.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve done. Only a word more!” And off she started again.
Christophe shook himself angrily.
“Will you keep your dirtiness to yourself!”
“I was only joking.”
“Find cleaner subjects, then!”
“Tell me why, then. Tell me why you don’t like it.”
“Why? You can’t argue as to why a dump-heap smells. It does smell, and that is all! I hold my nose and go away.”
He went away, furious: and he strode along taking in great breaths of the cold air.
But she would begin again, once, twice, ten times. She would bring forward every possible subject that could shock him and offend his conscience.
He thought it was only a morbid jest of a neurasthenic girl, amusing herself by annoying him. He would shrug his shoulders or pretend not to hear her: he would not take her seriously. But sometimes he would long to throw her out of the window: for neurasthenia and the neurasthenics were very little to his taste. …
But ten minutes away from her were enough to make him forget everything that had annoyed him. He would return to Ada with a fresh store of hopes and new illusions. He loved her. Love is a perpetual act of faith. Whether God exist or no is a small matter: we believe, because we believe. We love because we love; there is no need of reasons! …
After Christophe’s quarrel with the Vogels it became impossible for them to stay in the house, and Louisa had to seek another lodging for herself and her son.
One day Christophe’s younger brother Ernest, of whom they had not heard for a long time, suddenly turned up. He was out of work, having been dismissed in turn from all the situations he had procured; his purse was empty and his health ruined; and so he had thought it would be as well to reestablish himself in his mother’s house.
Ernest was not on bad terms with either of his brothers: they thought very little of him and he knew it: but he did not bear any grudge against them, for he did not care. They had no ill-feeling against him. It was not worth the trouble. Everything they said to him slipped off his back without leaving a mark. He just smiled with his sly eyes, tried to look contrite, thought of something else, agreed, thanked them, and in the end always managed to extort money from one or other of them. In spite of himself Christophe was fond of the pleasant mortal who, like himself, and more than himself, resembled their father Melchior in feature. Tall and strong like Christophe, he had regular features, a frank expression, a straight nose, a laughing mouth, fine teeth, and endearing manners. When even Christophe saw him he was disarmed and could not deliver half the reproaches that he had prepared: in his heart he had a sort of motherly indulgence for the handsome boy who was of his blood, and physically at all events did him credit. He did not believe him to be bad: and Ernest was not a fool. Without culture, he was not without brains: he was even not incapable of taking an interest in the things of the mind. He enjoyed listening to music: and without understanding his brother’s compositions he would listen to them with interest. Christophe, who did not receive too much sympathy from his family, had been glad to see him at some of his concerts.
But Ernest’s chief talent was the knowledge that he possessed of the character of his two brothers, and his skill in making use of his knowledge. It was no use Christophe knowing Ernest’s egoism and indifference: it was no use his seeing that Ernest never thought of his mother or himself except when he had need of them: he was always taken in by his affectionate ways and very rarely did he refuse him anything. He much preferred him to his other brother Rodolphe, who was orderly and correct, assiduous in his business, strictly moral, never asked for money, and never gave any either, visited his mother regularly every Sunday, stayed an hour, and only talked about himself, boasting about himself, his firm, and everything that concerned him, never asking about the others, and taking no interest in them, and going away when the hour was up, quite satisfied with having done
