César, accustomed to obey, sat down again.
She drew another chair near to his, in front of the stove on which the food prepared for lunch was bubbling, took Emile on her lap and asked César hundreds of questions about his father—such simple questions about his ordinary everyday life that without reasoning on the subject he felt that she had loved Hautot with all the strength of her aching heart.
And by the natural association of his scanty thoughts he returned to the accident and began to tell her all about it again giving the same details as before.
When he said: “He had a hole in the stomach into which you could put your two fists,” she uttered a faint cry and her eyes again filled with tears. Infected by her grief, César began to weep too, and as tears always soften the heart, he bent over Emile, whose forehead was close to his own mouth, and kissed him.
Recovering her breath, the mother murmured:
“Poor boy, he is an orphan now.”
“And so am I,” said César.
They said no more.
But suddenly the housewife’s practical instinct, accustomed to think of everything, reawakened.
“I expect you have had nothing to eat this morning, Mr. César?”
“No, mam’zelle.”
“Oh! You must be hungry. You will have a bite?”
“Thank you,” he said, “I am not hungry; I have been too worried.”
She replied:
“In spite of grief one must go on living, you are surely not going to refuse. Then that will keep you here a little longer. When you are gone, I don’t know what I shall do.”
He yielded after a little hesitation, and sitting down with his back to the fire, facing her, he ate some of the tripe that was crackling in the oven and drank a glass of red wine. But he would not allow her to uncork the white wine. Several times he wiped the small boy’s mouth who had smeared his chin all over with gravy.
As he got up to go, he asked:
“When would you like me to come back to talk the matter over, Mam’zelle Donet?”
“If it is all the same to you, next Thursday, Mr. César. I shall not waste any time that way, as I am always free on Thursdays.”
“That will suit me—next Thursday.”
“You will come to lunch, won’t you?”
“Oh! as for that, I can’t promise.”
“Well, you know, it is easier to talk when eating. Besides, there is more time.”
“Well, all right. At twelve o’clock then.”
And off he went after having kissed little Emile and shaken hands with Mademoiselle Donet.
III
The week seemed long to César Hautot. He had never felt so lonely, and the solitude seemed unbearable. Hitherto he had lived with his father, just like his shadow, following him to the fields and superintending the execution of his orders; and when he did leave him for a short time it was only to meet again at dinner. They spent their evenings sitting opposite each other, smoking their pipes and talking about horses, cows or sheep; and the handshake they exchanged every morning was the symbol of deep family affection.
Now César was alone. He strolled about looking on while the harvesters worked, expecting at any moment to see his father’s tall gesticulating form at the far end of a field. To kill time he visited his neighbours, telling all about the accident to those who had not already heard it and telling it over again to those who had. Then having reached the end of all that interested him, he would sit down at the side of the road and wonder whether this kind of life would last very long.
He often thought of Mademoiselle Donet. He remembered her with pleasure. He had found her ladylike, gentle and good, exactly as father had described her. Undoubtedly, so far as goodness was concerned, she was good. He was determined to do the thing handsomely and give her two thousand francs a year, settling the capital on the child. He even felt a certain pleasure at the prospect of seeing her again on the following Thursday, and making all the arrangements for her future. Then, although the idea of the brother, the little chap of five—his father’s son—did worry and annoy him, it also filled him with a friendly feeling. This illegitimate youngster, though he would never bear the name of Hautot, was, in a sense, a member of the family life, whom he might adopt or abandon as he pleased but who would always remind him of his father.
So that when, on Thursday morning, he was trotting along the road to Rouen on Graindorge’s back, he felt lighter-hearted, more at peace than he had done since his bereavement.
On entering Mademoiselle Donet’s apartment, he saw the table laid as on the previous Thursday, the only difference being that the crust had been left on the bread.
He shook hands with the young woman, kissed Emile on both cheeks and sat down feeling more or less at home in spite of his heart being heavy. Mademoiselle Donet seemed to him to have grown thinner and paler. She must have wept bitterly. She appeared rather awkward in his presence, as if she now understood what she had not felt the previous week when under the first impression of her loss. She treated him with exaggerated respect, showing stricken humility, and waiting upon him with solicitude as if to repay by her attentions and devotion the kindness he had shown her. The lunch dragged on as they discussed the business that had brought him to the house. She did not want so much money. It was too much, far too much. She earned enough to keep herself and she only wanted Emile to find a small sum awaiting him when he was grown up. César was firm, and even added a present of one thousand francs for her mourning.
When he had finished his coffee, she asked:
“Do you smoke?”
“Yes … I
