"Georges."
"Oh! yes. I remember. Christophe Olivier Georges…. How old are you?"
"Fourteen."
"Fourteen! Is it so long ago?… It is as though it were yesterday—or far back in the darkness of time…. How like you are to him! The same features. It is the same, and yet another. The same colored eyes, but not the same eyes. The same smile, the same lips, but not the same voice. You are stronger. You hold yourself more erect: your face is fuller, but you blush just as he used to do. Come, sit down, let us talk. Who sent you to me?"
"No one."
"You came of your own accord? How do you know about me?"
"People have talked to me about you."
"Who?"
"My mother."
"Ah!" said Christophe. "Does she know that you came to see me?"