“Only,” I said, hanging my head and averting my eyes, somewhat surprised to find how one thing followed another, “only I should need another preparation than that of this school.”
“Your school isn’t sufficient?”
“Oh, the teachers are good fellows,” I replied contemptuously, “but as for lessons, they are far from brilliant.”
Father said “ah!” and was silent. Raising my eyes I saw how surprised he was, and that was as joyful to me as a victory. Perhaps there was also in his countenance another expression than one of surprise. I was giving him an opportunity to get rid of me, as I was pleased to think was his wish; why did he not make the most of it? He turned to mother, who seemed grieved.
“This requires reflection,” he said.
How could one, at such an early age, find pleasure in tormenting those who loved him? Perhaps the picture in my Bible representing the return of the Prodigal Son had taught me the inexhaustible resources of paternal love. My father seemed to me so strong that I could have no fear of hurting him. All through life it is those upon whom one most depends whom one uses and misuses without mercy, not so much as thinking that they may be weary, since they never complain. And counting on their energy and health one always persuades oneself that there will be plenty of time to make it up to them, in case of need.
And yet I had discerned my father’s sorrow as I stood at the door, and the altered tone of his voice had revealed to me its depth. I am asking myself now if that very confession of sorrow, far from touching me did not lessen him in my eyes, accustomed as I had been to consider him an invincible hero—whether it did not change for me that picture of him which he had imprinted upon me from my earliest intelligence.
The long vacation did not bring its usual gaiety and diversions, that year. Mélanie’s departure for the convent, and that of Stephen, young as he was, for the Seminary had been finally decided upon. They were merely waiting for the month of October; then father would take his daughter to Paris and at the same time would place me in the school where my two elder brothers had finished their preparatory studies—for I had gained my point—and mother would go to Lyons with Stephen. This knowledge cast over our games and our gatherings a shade of sadness, which those concerned tried in vain to clear away. Aunt Deen, who was growing a little heavier, climbed the stairs more slowly, blew her nose noisily, prayed very loud and with a certain impetuosity which must have shaken the saints in Paradise, and murmured Thy will be done in a tone that could hardly pass for one of submission. Grandfather shut himself up in his tower, playing his violin with hands that trembled, adding other notes than those of the score, went out for his walk at nightfall without a word to any one, and seemed to be living in ignorance and indifference concerning all that was going on in the family. When he met me he would simply make the remark, accompanied with his little laugh,
“Ah, there you are!” while he never spoke to either of my brothers or sisters as he passed them. But his laugh did not ring true; my ear was quick to perceive that our separation weighed upon him. I would gladly have rushed to him if he had not had an air of thinking lightly of all the vexations in the world. The shadow of my father was always between us. I had had no orders to avoid him; our alienation was by tacit consent. We had never dared to confess to any complicity. One day, however, he added:
“So, you are going to Paris?”