“I do not know,” she said, “whether or not you have ever loved my son, but I have felt that his sudden departure must have seemed to you very shocking, so I have come to reassure you.”
I recoiled at this. It seemed to me that I was being attacked and that was the last thing I expected. I was startled and puzzled by those opening words. What difference did it make whether or not I had loved her son? For a moment I felt angry. After all it was he that had left me; why then, should I be accused? As for reassurance, I did not want any. This was no time for reassurance. An ugly spirit stirred in me. I was about to answer abruptly, when I saw that the purple-veined hand that lay across the table before me was trembling. It was animated by some painful agitation that shook it even resting as it did on that strong surface. The withered palm was rubbing and quivering against the polished wood, the worn finger tips were tapping spasmodically. My eyes smarted at the sight of it. I spoke gently.
“Yes, belle-maman, I thank you for coming.”
“Ah, my poor child—and the family—I hear the family has been at you.”
“They have been here.”
“You must not mind them. They do not understand. In our world women, you know, take things differently, they do not expect what you expect.”
There was a pause. What could I say? She seemed very reasonable and very kind. I had never felt her so near to me before.
When she spoke again it was even more simply. “I have had no news of Philibert,” she said sadly. “Have you?” The tone of her voice was intimate and more natural than I had ever heard it when addressed to me. It implied that we were both unfortunate together. I responded to it with a flicker of hope.
“No,” I replied, “I have no news, but I have reason to believe that he will not come back.”