Christophe roared with laughter. He hurled his napkin into the air.
"In love?…" he cried. "Oh! Lord!… but no! I've had enough! You can be easy on that score. That is done, done, forever!… Ouf!"
He drank a glassful of water.
Louisa looked at him, reassured, wagged her head, and smiled.
"That's a drunkard's pledge," she said. "It won't last until to-night."
"Then the day is clear gain," he replied good-humoredly.
"Oh, yes!" she said. "But what has made you so happy?"
"I am happy. That is all."
Sitting opposite her with his elbows on the table he tried to tell her all that he was going to do. She listened with kindly skepticism and gently pointed out that his soup was going cold. He knew that she did not hear what he was saying: but he did not care: he was talking for his own satisfaction.
They looked at each other smiling: he talking: she hardly listening. Although she was proud of her son she attached no great importance to his artistic projects: she was thinking: "He is happy: that matters most."—While he was growing more and more excited with his discourse he watched his mother's dear face, with her black shawl tightly tied round her head, her white hair, her young eyes that devoured him lovingly, her sweet and tranquil kindliness. He knew exactly what she was thinking. He said to her jokingly: