A visible uneasiness had taken possession of Aunt Joconda; a look that was almost impudent came into her eyes. She repeated:
"So—so."
"Oh! forgive me, Aunt Joconda," he said at last, with a painful effort. "I forgot to bring you some candy."
The old woman changed countenance, as if she were on the point of fainting; her eyes became dim; she stuttered: "It doesn't matter——"
"But to-morrow I will get you some," added George consolingly, yet with a sinking heart. "I will write——"
The old woman became livelier. She said very rapidly: "You know, at the Ursulines ... it's to be had."
A silence followed, during which Aunt Joconda had, without doubt, a foretaste of the morrow's delicacies; because her toothless mouth gave forth the little sound that one makes in re-swallowing the superabundant saliva.
"My poor George! Ah! if I had not my George! You see, what has occurred in this house is a punishment from heaven. But go, boy, go out on the balcony and look at the vases. I—I am the only one who waters them; I always think of George; formerly, I had Demetrius, but now I have no one but you."
She rose, took her nephew by the hand, and led him to one of the balconies. She showed him the flowering vases; she plucked a bergamot leaf and held it out to him. She stooped down to feel if the earth were dry.
"Wait!" she said.