"It was your son who wrote to me?"
"Yes," said she, "he is a great admirer of yours. We have both felt drawn to you for a long time."
"He must come to see me."
"He cannot do that."
"Why not? Is he at the Front?"
"No, he is here." After a moment's silence, Clerambault asked:
"Has he been wounded?"
"Would you like to see him?" said the mother. Clerambault walked beside her in silence, not daring to ask any questions, but at last he said: "You are fortunate at least that you can have him near you always…." She understood and held out her hand: "We were always very close to one another," she said, and Clerambault repeated:
"At least he is near you."
"I have his soul," she answered.