第79章

The contrast between the portrait in my little album of my aunt and her face as I saw it now, told plainly enough how much she had suffered during the past two years.Her hair had become more white, the lines which run from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth were deepened, her eyelids had a withered look.And yet she had never been demonstrative in her grief.I was an observant little boy, and the difference between my mother's character and that of my aunt was precisely indicated to my mind by the difference in their respective sorrow.At that time it was hard for me to understand my aunt's reserve, while I could not suspect her of want of feeling.Now it is to the other sort of nature that I am unjust.My mother also had a tender heart, so tender that she did not feel able to reveal her purpose to me, and it was my Aunt Louise who undertook to do so.She had not consented to be present at the marriage, and M.Termonde, as I afterwards learned, preferred that I should not attend on the occasion, in order, no doubt, to spare the feelings of her who was to become his wife.

In spite of all her self-control, Aunt Louise had tears in her brown eyes when she led me to the far end of the garden, where my father had played when he was a child like myself.The golden tints of September had begun to touch the foliage of the trees.Avine spread its tendrils over the arbor in which we seated ourselves, and wasps were busy among the ripening grapes.My aunt took both my hands in hers, and began:

"Andre, I have to tell you a great piece of news."I looked at her apprehensively.The shock of the dreadful event in our lives had left its mark upon my nervous system, and at the slightest surprise my heart would beat until I nearly fainted.She saw my agitation and said simply:

"Your mother is about to marry."

It was strange this sentence did not immediately produce the impression which my look at her had led my aunt to expect.I had thought from the tone of her voice, that she was going to tell me of my mother's illness or death.My sensitive imagination readily conjured up such fears.I asked calmly:

"Whom?"

"You do not guess?"

"M.Termonde?" I cried.

Even now I cannot define the reasons which sent this name to my lips so suddenly, without a moment's thought.No doubt M.Termonde had been a good deal at our house since my father's death; but had he not visited us as often, if not more frequently, before my mother's widowhood? Had he not managed every detail of our affairs for us with care and fidelity, which even then I could recognize as very rare? Why should the news of his marriage with my mother seem to me on the instant to be much worse news than if she had married no matter whom? Exactly the opposite effect ought to have been produced, surely? I had known this man for a long time; he had been very kind to me formerly--they said he spoiled me--and he was very kind to me still.My best toys were presents from him, and my prettiest books; a wonderful wooden horse which moved by clockwork, given to me when I was seven--how much my poor father was amused when I told him this horse was "a double thoroughbred"--"Don Quixote," with Dore's illustrations, this very year; in fact some new gift constantly, and yet I was never easy and light-hearted in his presence as I had formerly been.When had this restraint begun? I could not have told that, but I thought he came too often between my mother and me.I was jealous of him, I may as well confess it, with that unconscious jealousy which children feel, and which made me lavish kisses on my mother when he was by, in order to show him that she was my mother, and nothing at all to him.Had he discovered my feelings? Had they been his own also? However that might be, I now never failed to discern antipathy similar to my own in his looks, notwithstanding his flattering voice and his over-polite ways.At my then age, instinct is never deceived about such impressions.