The next morning, as soon as he woke, his spot, from the way it felt, seemed to him odd; he examined it in the glass and found that a yellowish scab had formed over the part that had been grazed; the whole had a decidedly nasty look. As at that moment he heard Carola outside on the landing, he called her in and begged her to examine the place. She led Fleurissoire up to the window and at first glance assured him:
“It’s not what you think.”
To tell the truth, Amédée had not thought particularly of it, but Carola’s attempt to reassure him had the contrary effect of filling him with alarm. For, indeed, directly she asserted that it was not it, it meant there was a chance that it might be. After all, was she really certain that it wasn’t? It seemed to him quite natural that it should be; for there was no doubt that he had sinned; he deserved that it should be it; it must be it. A cold shudder went down his spine.
“How did you get it?” she asked.
Ah! what signified that occasional cause—the rasor’s cut or the chemist’s spittle? The real, the root cause, the one that had earned him this chastisement, could he with decency tell her what it was? Would she understand him if he did? She would laugh, no doubt.... As she repeated her question:
“It was a barber,” he said.
“You ought to put something on it.”
This solicitude swept away his last doubts; what she had said at first was merely to reassure him; he saw himself with his face and body eaten away by boils—an object of disgust to Arnica; his eyes filled with tears.
“Then you think....”
“No, no, dearie, you mustn’t get into such a state; you look like a funeral. In the first place, it would be impossible to tell it at this stage, even if it is that.”