He watched Vincent go out, shrugged his shoulders, then went into his dressing-room to change into his dress suit, which was ready laid out for him on a sofa.
In a room on the first floor, the old count is lying on his deathbed. Someone has placed a crucifix on his breast, but has omitted to fold his hands over it. A beard of some days’ growth softens the stubborn angle of his chin. Beneath his grey hair, which is brushed up en brosse, the wrinkles that line his forehead seem less deeply graven, as though they were relaxed. His eye is sunk beneath the arch of the brow and the shaggy growth of the eyebrow. I know that we shall never see him again, and that is the reason that I take a long look at him. Beside the head of the bed is an armchair, in which is seated the old nurse Séraphine. But she has risen. She goes up to a table where an old-fashioned lamp is dimly lighting the room; it needs turning up. A lampshade casts the light on to the book young Gontran is reading. …
“You’re tired, Master Gontran. You had better go to bed.”
The glance that Gontran raises from his book to rest upon Séraphine is very gentle. His fair hair, a lock of which he pushes back from his forehead, waves loosely over his temples. He is fifteen years old, and his face, which is still almost girlish, expresses nothing as yet but tenderness and love.
“And you?” he says. “It is you who ought to go to bed, you poor old Fine. Last night, you were on your feet nearly the whole time.”
“Oh, I’m accustomed to sitting up. And besides I slept during the daytime—but you. …”
“No, I’m all right. I don’t feel tired; and it does me good to stay here thinking and reading. I knew Papa so little; I think I should forget him altogether if I didn’t take a good look at him now. I will sit beside him till daylight. How long is it, Fine, since you came to us?”
“I came the year before you were born, and you’re nearly sixteen.”
“Do you remember Mamma quite well?”
“Do I remember your Mamma? What a question! You might as well ask me if I remember my own name. To be sure, I remember your Mamma.”
“I remember her too—a little. … But not very well. … I was only five when she died. Used Papa to talk to her much?”
“It depended on his mood. Your Papa was never a one to talk much, and he didn’t care to be spoken to first. All the same in those days he was a little more talkative than he has been of late. … But there now! What’s past is past, and it’s better not to stir it up again. There’s One above who’s a better judge of these things than we are.”
“Do you really think that He concerns Himself about such things, dear Fine?”
“Why, if He doesn’t, who should then?”
Gontran puts his lips on Séraphine’s red, roughened hand. “You really ought to go to bed now. I promise to wake you as soon as it is light, and then I’ll take my turn to rest. Please!”
As soon as Séraphine has left him, Gontran falls upon his knees at the foot of the bed; he buries his head in the sheets, but he cannot succeed in weeping. No emotion stirs his heart; his eyes remain despairingly dry. Then he gets up and looks at the impassive face on the bed. At this solemn moment, he would like to have some rare, sublime experience—hear a message from the world beyond—send his thought flying into ethereal regions, inaccessible to mortal senses. But no! his thought remains obstinately grovelling on the earth; he looks at the dead man’s bloodless hands and wonders for how much longer the nails will go on growing. The sight of the unclasped hands grates on him. He would like to join them, to make them hold the crucifix. What a good idea! He thinks of Séraphine’s astonishment when she sees the dead hands folded together; the thought of Séraphine’s astonishment amuses him; and then he despises himself for being amused. Nevertheless he stoops over the bed. He seizes the arm which is
