—I see, said Master Estève after scanning the letters; come in; have a glass of Muscat.
The man replied:
—Thanks, but I am too upset for company.
And he went away.
The father went back in, seemingly unaffected, and retook his place at the table where the meal was rounded off quite amiably.
That evening, Master Estève went out into the fields with his son. They stayed outside some time, and when they did return the mother was waiting up for them.
—Wife, said the farmer bringing their son to her, hug him, he's very unhappy….
* * * * *
Jan didn't mention the Arlesienne ever again. He still loved her though, only more so, now he knew that she was in the arms of someone else. The trouble was that he was too proud to say so, and that's what killed the poor boy. Sometimes, he would spend entire days alone, huddled in a corner, motionless. At other times, angry, he would set himself to work on the farm, and, on his own, get through the work of ten men. When evening came, he would set out for Arles, and walk expectantly until he saw the town's few steeples appearing in the sunset. Then he turned round and went home. He never went any closer than that.
The people in the farm didn't know what to do, seeing him always sad and lonely. They feared the worst. Once, during a meal, his mother, her eyes welling with tears, said to him: