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.

She told me not a word of it, but I easily guessed that floods of tears
had streamed from her black eyes down her thin cheeks, now pale as wax.
Her face is quite transparent, and looks as if a tiny lamp were lighting
it from within. There are strong feelings, too, beneath that impassive
mask. Madeleine comes from Bayonne, and has Spanish blood in her. I have
heard that she was lovely as a girl of twenty. With age her features
have grown austere. She looks like a widow who is a widow indeed, and
her heart is that of a grandmother.

She glided before me in her slippers to that realm of peace and silence,
her kitchen. I followed her in. Two things that never found entrance
there are dust and noise. A lonely goldfinch hangs in a wicker cage from
the rafters, and utters from time to time a little shrill call. His note
and the metallic tick-tick of Madeleine's clock alone enliven the silent
flight of time. She sat down in the low chair where she knits after
dinner.

"Madeleine, I am about to be married; did you know it?"

She slowly shook her head.

"Yes, in Paris, Monsieur Fabien; that's what makes the master so
unhappy."

"You will soon see her whom I have chosen, Madeleine."

"I do not think so, Monsieur Fabien."

"Yes, yes, you will; and you will see that it is my uncle who is in the
wrong."

"I have not often known him in the wrong."

"That has nothing to do with it. My marriage is fully decided upon, and
all I want is to get my uncle's consent to it. Do you understand? I want
to make friends with him."

Madeleine shook her head again.

"You won't succeed."

"My dear Madeleine!"

"No, Monsieur Fabien, you won't succeed."

"He must be very much changed, then!"

"So much that you could hardly believe it; so much that I can hardly
keep myself from changing too. He, who had such a good appetite, now has
nothing but fads. It's no good my cooking him dainties, or buying him
early vegetables; he never notices them, but looks out of the window as
I come in at the door with a surprise for him. In the evening he often
forgets to go out in the garden, and sits at table, his elbows on his
rum