“Yes, grandfather, when schools open.”
“You are in luck. One feels more free in Paris than anywhere else. You will see.”
Was he jesting again? For me Paris meant boarding school, prison. And besides, had he not often told me that large cities are baneful, that real happiness was to be found only in the fields? But grandfather cared little enough for logic.
My approaching departure—that departure which I had proudly demanded, and which inspired within me a secret repulsion against which I hardened myself, made but small stir in the house—a fact that greatly irritated my self-love—being lost in that of Mélanie and my brothers, as a small boat is lost in the wake of a great vessel. Bernard, who had graduated from Saint-Cyr with a high grade that put him in the marine infantry, would go to Toulon, whence he would shortly embark for Tonkin. Now his first word, on his return home had been—I heard him say it to Aunt Deen, who had hastened, breathless, to open the door,
“You can’t imagine the pleasure with which I ring this bell.”
Then why did he ask to go to China? Mélanie and Stephen, too, exchanged mystifying confidences.
“Do you really want to go?” Stephen asked his sister. “We are so happy here. As for me, there are days when I am not sure.”
Mélanie, with illumined eyes, replied:
“I must, indeed, since God calls me,” adding, almost gaily,
“But I shall carry a lot of handkerchiefs, a dozen at least, for I feel sure that I shall cry all the tears that are in me.”