The boy said:
"I am his son."
Christophe started: he got up from his chair, took hold of the boy's arm, and drew him to him; he sank back into his chair and held him in a close embrace: their faces almost touched; and he gazed and gazed at him, saying:
"My boy…. My poor boy…."
Suddenly he took his face in his hands and kissed his brow, eyes, cheeks, nose, hair. The boy was frightened and shocked by such a violent demonstration, and broke away from him. Christophe let him go. He hid his face in his hand, and leaned his brow against the wall, and sat so for the space of a few moments. The boy had withdrawn to the other end of the room. Christophe raised his head. His face was at rest: he looked at the boy with an affectionate smile.
"I frightened you," he said. "Forgive me…. You see, I loved him."
The boy was still frightened, and said nothing.
"How like you are to him!" said Christophe…. "And yet I should not have recognized you. What is it that has changed?…"
He asked:
"What is your name?"