Madeleine opened the door to me, and started as if shot.
“Monsieur Fabien!”
“Myself, Madeleine. My uncle is not at home?”
“No, Monsieur. Do you really mean to come in, Monsieur?”
“Why not?”
“The master’s so changed since his visit to Paris, Monsieur Fabien!”
Madeleine stood still, with one hand holding up her apron, the other hanging, and gazed at me with reproachful anxiety.
“I must come in, Madeleine. I have a secret to tell you.”
She made no answer, but turned and walked before me into the house.
It was not thus that I used to be welcomed in days gone by! Then Madeleine used to meet me at the station. She used to kiss me, and tell me how well I looked, promising the while a myriad sweet dishes which she had invented for me. Hardly did I set foot in the hall before my uncle, who had given up his evening walk for my sake, would run out of his study, heart and cravat alike out of their usual order at seeing me—me, a poor, awkward, gaping schoolboy: Today that is ancient history. To-day I am afraid to meet my uncle, and Madeleine is afraid to let me in.