“It was last evening that you decided on this excursion?” she asked.
“Yes, last evening.”
“Will you return to dinner?”
“I do not know. At any rate do not wait for me.”
He looked at her with stupefied curiosity. This woman was his mother! All those features, seen daily from childhood, from the time when his eye could first distinguish things, that smile, that voice—so well known, so familiar—abruptly struck him as new, different from what they had always been to him hitherto. He understood now that, loving her, he had never looked at her. All the same it was very really she, and he knew every little detail of her face; still, it was the first time he clearly identified them all. His anxious attention, scrutinizing her face which he loved, recalled a difference, a physiognomy he had never before discerned.
He rose to go; then, suddenly yielding to the invincible longing to know which had been gnawing at him since yesterday, he said:
“By the way, I fancy I remember that you used to have, in Paris, a little portrait of Maréchal, in the drawing-room.”
She hesitated for a second or two, or at least he fancied she hesitated; then she said:
“To be sure.”
“What has become of the portrait?”