She passed by grandfather’s place, and crossed the entire length of the room, as if she was but doing her duty in handing the blue paper to father, who was on the side toward the windows. Father took it from her, but handed it at once to the actual addressee.
“Do you want it?” he asked.
“Oh, no thank you,” said grandfather with his little laugh. “Open it yourself.”
Nevertheless I caught him casting a quick, alert glance upon the telegram. His little laugh at once recalled to my mind a rattle which had been taken away from me because it disturbed everybody. That little laugh was the last sound. An almost solemn silence ensued, so complete that I could hear the tearing of the envelope. How could father open it with so little impatience? I imagined myself opening it in his place, err—err ... it was done. All eyes converged upon the deliberate motions of his two hands—all except those of grandfather, who quite as peacefully removed the crust from a bit of cheese, and seemed to take pleasure in the trifling task. Father felt our anxiety and doubtless wished to relieve it at all hazards; instead of reading he raised his eyes to us.
“Go on eating,” he said. “It does not concern you.”
Then turning to the cook who had remained behind his chair, leaning over like an interrogation point:
“Thank you, Mariette, you may go.”
She went, vexed, knowing nothing, but sent in Philomena who learned no more than she.
Finally my father read. Deliberate as he had been in the preliminaries he was quick enough in reading. He must have taken in the whole at a glance. He was already putting the telegram in his pocket without a word, without the movement of a muscle, when he looked around the table, and under his gaze we bent our eyes upon our plates.
“Come, come, children!” he exclaimed almost gaily. “It is still light. Make haste to finish your dessert and run play in the garden.”