“You hear him!' You hear him!” exclaimed Baudu, delighted. “There's one they'll never get hold of! Ah! my boy, you're the last of the old stock, we sha'n't see any more!” But Geneviève, with her severe and suffering look, still kept her eyes on Colomban, diving into the depths of his heart. And he felt troubled, he redoubled his invectives. Madame Baudu was watching them with an anxious air, as if she foresaw another misfortune in this direction. For some time her daughter's sadness had frightened her, she felt her to be dying. “The shop is left to take care of itself,” said she at last, quitting the table, desirous of putting an end to the scene. “Go and see, Colomban; I fancy I heard some one.”
They had finished, and got up. Baudu and Colomban went to speak to a traveller, who had come for orders. Madame Baudu carried Pépé off to show him some pictures. The servant had quickly cleared the table, and Denise was lounging by the window, looking into the little back yard, when turning round she saw Geneviève still in her place, her eyes fixed on the American cloth, which was still damp from the sponge having been passed over it.
“Are you suffering, cousin?” she asked.
The young girl did not reply, obstinately studying a rent in the cloth, too preoccupied by the reflections passing through her mind. Then she raised her head with pain, and looked at the sympathising face bent over hers. The others had gone, then? What was she doing on this chair? And suddenly a flood of sobs stifled her, her head fell forward on the edge of the table. She wept on, wetting her sleeve with her tears.
“Good heavens! what's the matter with you?” cried Denise in dismay. “Shall I call some one?”
Geneviève nervously seized her by the arm, and held her back, stammering: “No, no, stay. Don't let mamma know! With you I don't mind; but not the others—not the others! It's not my fault, I assure you. It was on finding myself all alone. Wait a bit; I'm better, and Pm not crying now.”
But sudden attacks kept seizing her, causing her frail body to tremble. It seemed as though the weight of her hair was weighing down her head. As she was rolling her poor head on her folded arms, a hair-pin came out, and her hair fell over her neck, burying it in its folds. Denise, quietly, for fear of attracting attention, tried to console her. She undid her dress, and was heart-broken on seeing how fearfully thin she was. The poor girl's bosom was as hollow as that of a child. Denise took the hair by handfuls, that superb head of hair which seemed to be absorbing all her life, and twisted it up, to clear it away, and give her a little air.
“Thanks, you are very kind,” said Geneviève. “Ah! I'm not very stout, am I? I used to be stouter, but it's all gone away. Do up my dress or mamma might see my shoulders. I hide them as much as I can. Good heavens! I'm not at all well, I'm not at all well.”
However, the attack passed away, and she sat there completely worn out, looking fixedly at her cousin. After a pause she abruptly asked: “Tell me the truth: does he love her?”
Denise felt a blush rising to her cheek. She was perfectly well aware that Geneviève referred to Colomban and Clara; but she pretended to be surprised.