"No, my little friend," says the kind old gentleman. "That was over there."
The boy looks at him with surprise. I hasten to reassure him:
"Those are Jean's chimneys," I say.
And, while he is looking out again, I take the old gentleman to the further corner of the compartment and tell him the state of the case.
I tell him that, if I live, I hope, in years to come, to explain to the boy the difference between Petersen's and Hansen's factories and, should I die, I will confidently leave that part of his education to others. Yes, even if he should never learn this difference, I would still be resigned. Today it is a question of other and more important matters. The strongest, the most living thing he knew is dead. . . .
"Really?" says the old gentleman, sympathetically. "A relation, perhaps?"
"Yes," I say. "Jean is dead, a dog. . . ."
"A dog?"
"It is not because of the dog—don't you understand?—but of death, which he sees for the first time: death, with all its might, its mystery. . . ."
"Father," says my little boy and turns his head towards us. "When do we die?"