He was shivering as in a fever. He was quite pale. He tried to master himself, to be manly, plucky and brave. A dark terror overwhelmed him. Everything went black before his eyes.
"My dear, my dear ... what is it?"
She had thrown her arm round him and now drew him to the sofa.
"Oh, Mamma!... To grow old! To grow old!"
"Hush, darling, be still!"
She stroked his head as it lay on her shoulder. She knew him like that: it was his disease, his weakness; it returned periodically and he would lie against her thus, moaning at the thought of growing old, of growing old.... Ah, well, it was his disease, his weakness; she knew all about it; and she became very calm, as she would have done if he had been feverish. She fondled him, stroked his hair with regular strokes, trying not to disorder it. She kissed him repeatedly. She felt a glow of content because she was petting him; her motherly attitude was bound to calm him.
"Hush, darling, be still!"
He did keep still for a moment.
"Do you really think it so terrible ... to grow old ... perhaps ... later on?" asked Ottilie, melancholy in spite of herself.
"Yes...."