"You see ... it's the same nearly every day."
I did not understand.
"What?"
"I'm ill," he murmured. "It's rotten, oh heavens, how rotten it is!"
I looked at him interrogatively. Turned towards me he unburdened himself of his secret, in a broken voice. It was months, years now since he had been well. Last spring his mother—"Maman" he said (the word moved me and made me dream of mine)—his mother had implored him to consult a doctor.... He had resisted a long time afraid to hear that he was ill.... How alarming it had been when the doctor, after sounding him, had knitted his eyebrows and told him he must be careful. It was not so very long since his father, a few months after a warning of this kind, had been taken from them.
While he talked I seized the opportunity of watching him unobserved. Now that my eyes were opened I immediately became aware of the well-known signs: this narrow, hollow chest, the sallow complexion, the pink patches on the cheek-bones, down to the tapering fingers.
"I realised that I could not take any risks and I wanted to live.... I wanted to. Two days later Mother and I took the train to Switzerland. Do you know Château d'Oex?"
I made a sign of assent.
"I stayed there for four months, April to July, resting on a long chair in the sun."
"Did you get better?"