These words, "Your mother is dead," awakened a new sorrow; it was the torment of the flesh which cannot forget, the cruel echo of past sufferings; but mostly the thrill of the fleeting, delirious bliss of his youthful passion.
The young man replied: "Yes, Monsieur le Curé, my mother is dead."
"Has she been dead a long while?"
"Yes, three years."
A new doubt entered the priest's mind. "And why did you not find me out before?"
The other man hesitated.
"I was unable to, I was prevented. But excuse me for interrupting these recollections—I will enter into more details later—for I have not had anything to eat since yesterday morning."
A tremor of pity shook the old man and holding forth both hands: "Oh! my poor child!" he said.
The young fellow took those big, powerful hands in his own slender and feverish palms.
Then he replied, with that air of sarcasm which hardly ever left his lips: "Ah! I'm beginning to think that we shall get along very well together, after all!"