"I bet it's Maurice!"
I mechanically ask: "Who's Maurice?"
"A little neighbour," Jeannine replies.
"Yes, that's him all right."
The child bounds down the steps and leaves us alone. How awkward! Just the very thing which should have been avoided. I try to fill up the silence with a commonplace remark—Good God! This moment of tête-à-tête, for which my whole being longed in desperation in the hours of Death!
André's voice makes itself heard. He comes running back.
"I say, Jeannine, he wants to know if I may go and play with him."
I hardly listen to the reply. Turning away, I contemplate the violet crest of the Estérel, which has just revealed itself in the gloaming so boldly that it might be taken for the outline of a cloud.
One would almost say that Jeannine was hesitating. I listen, in spite of myself, for the words that will fall from her lips—I know she will recall her brother. The child is too useful here.