He had an odd habit of jerking his head upwards and sideways with raised eyebrows. It would appear that a trick of thus deploring some unavoidable misfortune had crystallized itself, as it were, into a habit by long use. And the old man rarely spoke now without this upward jerk.
Lory closed the shutter and followed his father into an adjoining room—a small, round apartment lighted by a skylight and impregnated with tobacco-smoke. The carpet was worn into holes in several places, and the boards beneath were polished by the passage of smooth soles. Lory glanced at his father's feet, which were encased in carpet slippers several sizes too large for him, bought at a guess in the village shop.
Here again the two men stood and looked at each other. And again it was the father who broke the silence.
“My son,” he said, half to himself; “and a soldier. Your mother was a bad woman, mon ami. And I have lived thirty years in this room,” he concluded simply.
“Name of God!” exclaimed Lory. “And what have you done all this time?”
“Carnations,” replied the old man, gravely. “There is still daylight. Come; I will show you. Yes; carnations.”
As he spoke he turned and opened the door behind him. It led out to a small terrace no larger than a verandah, and every inch of earth was occupied by the pale green of carnation-spikes. Some were budding, some in bloom. But there was not a flower among them at which a modern gardener would not have laughed aloud. And there were tears in Lory de Vasselot's eyes as he looked at them.
The father stood, jerking his head and looking at his son, waiting his verdict.
“Yes,” was the son's reply at last; “yes—very pretty.”
“But to-night you cannot see them,” said the old man, earnestly. “To-morrow morning—we shall get up early, eh?”