In the evenings they both sat by the fireside while she prepared something nice for him: hot wine and toasted bread, which made an enjoyable light supper before going to bed. She often took him on her knee and fondled him, murmuring words of passionate tenderness. She used to call him “my little flower, my cherub, my darling angel, my precious jewel,” to all of which he was gently submissive, laying his head on the old maid’s shoulder.
Although nearly fifteen now, he was still little and frail, and looked rather unhealthy. Sometimes Mademoiselle Source would take him into town to see the only two relations she had left—distant cousins who were married and lived in one of the suburbs. The two women had a grievance against her for adopting the child, on account of her money, but they welcomed her nevertheless, still hoping for their share—in all probability one-third—if the inheritance were equally divided.
She was very, very happy, her time being fully occupied with her child; she bought him books to develop his mind, and he became a great reader.
He no longer sat on her knee in the evenings to fondle her, but would rush to his chair by the fire and get his book. The light from the lamp, placed on the table just above his head, was reflected on his curly hair and part of his forehead; he never moved, never raised his eyes, but went on reading, entirely absorbed in the adventures in print.
Seated on the opposite side of the fire, she would gaze at him with a fixed, loving gaze, surprised at his concentration, feeling jealous, and often ready to cry about it. Every now and then she would say: “You will overtire yourself, my treasure!” hoping that he would raise his head and come and kiss her, but he never answered; he never heard her; he had not understood; he was oblivious of everything except the book he was reading.
For two years he simply devoured a great number of books, and there was a change in his character. He began to ask Mademoiselle Source for money, which she gave him, but as his demands kept growing she ended by refusing to give any more, for she was energetic and methodical, and could be sensible when necessary.
After much pleading he did obtain a considerable sum one evening, but when a few days later he begged for more, she was quite determined, and, indeed, she never yielded to his pleadings again.
He was apparently reconciled to do without and returned to his former ways, sitting quietly for hours with downcast eyes, lost in daydreaming. He never talked to Mademoiselle Source, and only replied to short, sharp sentences. However, he was charming and considerate to her, but never kissed her.
He occasionally made her feel frightened as they sat opposite each other by the fireside, silent and still. She wanted to rouse him, to say something, anything, to him, to break the silence which was as terrifying as the gloom of a forest. But he never seemed to hear her, and she trembled with terror—as poor weak women will—when she received no reply after speaking five or six times.
What was the matter? What was passing in that impenetrable mind? After some two or three hours spent in this way, she felt she must be going mad, she wanted to go away, to escape from the house, not only to avoid this everlasting dumb tête-à-tête, but to avoid, too, a vague unknown danger that she felt threatening her. She would often weep in her loneliness. What was the matter with him? She had only to express a wish and he carried it out without a murmur. If she wanted anything in town, he would go off and fetch it at once. She certainly had no ground for complaint! And yet—
A year passed by, and it struck her that there was another change in the young man. How had she noticed this, felt it, guessed it? No matter! She knew she was not mistaken, but she could not have put into words the change that had occurred in that strange youth’s unknown thoughts. To her it seemed that where he had been beset with hesitation, he was now quite resolute; this idea struck her one evening when she caught him staring at her curiously, with an expression she had never seen before.
After that he watched her continually until she felt as if she must hide herself to avoid the cold glance always fixed upon her. For whole evenings he would stare at her, only turning away his eyes when, reduced to helplessness, she said: “Don’t look at me like that, my child!” Then he would lower his head. But as soon as her back was turned she felt his eye upon her again. Wherever she went, he followed her with his tenacious gaze. Sometimes in the garden she would suddenly catch sight of him crouched among the shrubs as if he were hiding; or else when she was seated out of doors mending stockings, and he was digging in the vegetable garden, he would slyly and persistently watch her all the time he was at work. It was no use asking him: “What is the matter, my dear? You are so changed these last three years, I can’t recognise you. I implore you to tell me what’s wrong, what is filling your thoughts.”
He invariably answered, in a quiet, tired voice: “But nothing’s the matter, Auntie!” And when she insisted with: “Oh! my child, answer me, answer me when I speak to you. If you could know how you make me suffer, you would always answer, and you would
