"I dined alone," said Jean, "that is to say, with my grandfather."
"Not much of a companion, poor man. Is he not always so depressed, and so very infirm?"
"But his mind is very much alive, I assure you!"
There was a second silence, after which M. Ulrich asked, hesitatingly:
"And my sister? Your mother? Is she with them?"
The young man nodded an affirmative.
The elder man's grief was so intense that he turned away his eyes so that Jean might not see all the suffering they expressed. He raised them by chance to a water-colour by that master of decorative art, Spindler, hanging on the wall, and which represented three beautiful Alsatian girls amusing themselves swinging. Quickly he looked his nephew straight in the face, and, his voice broken with emotion, said:
"And you? You, too, could have dined with the Councillor von Boscher, considering how intimate you are with these Germans. Did you not wish to follow your parents?"
"No."
The word was said decidedly, simply. But M. Ulrich had not got the information he sought. Yes, Jean Oberlé had certainly become a man. He refused to blame his family, to voice any opinion which would be an accusation of the others. His uncle continued with the same ironical accent: