Thereupon he burst into an awkward sort of laugh. I could have wagered, looking at his perplexed expression, that he had no desire to do so, and that his thoughts were far away from joking.
The postman had taken his leave.
“Is the coach-house still there?” I said, pointing to the right at a brick building.
“Yes, yes. I did not recognize you because of your mustache—hum! Yes, your mustache. You hadn’t one long ago ... had you? Well, and how old are you?”
“Thirty-one, uncle.”
At the sight of the coach-house my heart stopped.
The dog-cart was moldering there, half buried under logs, and there, as in the neighboring stable which was full of odds and ends, the spider webs were hanging whole or in shreds.
“Thirty-one, already,” went on Lerne in a vague and obviously distracted manner.
“But, Uncle, say tu and toi to me, as long ago.”
“Ah, yes, dear ... Nicolas, eh?”