“It wasn’t I!” I cried, hasting to separate myself from my family.
“Of course it wasn’t you,” she replied philosophically. “You are too little. We went to tell your grandfather that we are going away to-morrow. To-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow!” I repeated, as if I had not heard, or had not understood.
“Yes, to-morrow. See for yourself. They are loading the things on the waggons now. The Marinetti brothers have left us. There’ll be no matinée to-day—that’s one good haul lost.”
To my surprise, she was not angry with me for her expulsion, and even in my grief I observed an unexpected reversal of parts: she was showing an unaccustomed consideration for me, and I was taking on a little protecting air. The prestige of power was doing its work all unawares to myself. Thus she did not suggest that I should help her in her work, though the day before she would not have failed to do so.
One of the old hags stuck her long yellow face out of the nearest waggon, and upbraided her for wasting her time.
“I must go,” said Nazzarena. “Such a job to get ready for moving! Good-bye, good-bye, my little lover! I wish you another sweetheart; you’s cute; you’ll find one.”
She did not offer her hand; perhaps she dared not, because of the respect for me which the sight of the house had inspired in her. And I found no words in which to reply to her. I smiled foolishly at her strange wish for me: it seemed abominable and sacrilegious, though the affectionate way in which she uttered it was as sweet to me as a caress. Her departure floored me—seemed to cut my legs and arms and empty my brain. I stood there like a dolt. Time and place were nothing to me—she was going away!
I saw her in the distance, stumbling under the heavy trappings of her horse, and she made a little gesture of adieu as she disappeared behind one of the waggons. It seemed to me as if she was already far off, and I managed to walk away.
Where should I go? Associating the cruelty of my family with Nazzarena’s departure, I could not go back home. What consolation, what support would I have found there? Father had forbidden me to go out: I could judge of the reception which awaited me. I wandered up and down the streets among the people in their Sunday best, absent-mindedly bumping against one or another, who hurled at me the epithet of blockhead, or boor. I almost enjoyed it, so tempestuously did I long to change the character of my pain. Powerless to direct my steps, I automatically found myself at the Café des Navigateurs. Grandfather would understand me; grandfather was the embodiment of that security for which that dear Martinod was working.