At first their music only irritated me and kept me from counting properly the iron bars. Then it enraged me, that woman with the soprano voice—
But I counted my iron bars—
Suddenly the pain, worse than any I had ever known,—remorse, sorrow, longing,—crowded into my soul. I felt as if I should die.
A man at the piano was playing the melody my mother most often played. My agony was beyond bearing. Repentance again swept over me, and eased me. It had been many years since I had heard that old-fashioned tune. At the first chord on the piano a flood of memories rushed back to me.
I was once more a boy, in the library at home—lighted lamps and the curtains drawn—a fire blazed and crackled
My younger brothers sat on the floor near it, amusing themselves by fancying they saw monsters and castles in the depths of the flames.
My father was there
My sisters and my mother too.
Oh, misericorde!
What pain at the sight of her—