“Do you remember, my friend, that I went to Tostes once when you had just lost your first deceased? I consoled you at that time. I thought of something to say then, but now—” Then, with a loud groan that shook his whole chest, “Ah! this is the end for me, do you see! I saw my wife go, then my son, and now today it’s my daughter.”
He wanted to go back at once to Bertaux, saying that he could not sleep in this house. He even refused to see his granddaughter.
“No, no! It would grieve me too much. Only you’ll kiss her many times for me. Goodbye! you’re a good fellow! And then I shall never forget that,” he said, slapping his thigh. “Never fear, you shall always have your turkey.”
But when he reached the top of the hill he turned back, as he had turned once before on the road of Saint-Victor when he had parted from her. The windows of the village were all on fire beneath the slanting rays of the sun sinking behind the field. He put his hand over his eyes, and saw in the horizon an enclosure of walls, where trees here and there formed black clusters between white stones; then he went on his way at a gentle trot, for his nag had gone lame.
Despite their fatigue, Charles and his mother stayed very long that evening talking together. They spoke of the days of the past and of the future. She would come to live at Yonville; she would keep house for him; they would never part again. She was ingenious and caressing, rejoicing in her heart at gaining once more an affection that had wandered from her for so many years. Midnight struck. The village as usual was silent, and Charles, awake, thought always of her.
Rodolphe, who, to distract himself, had been rambling about the wood all day, was sleeping quietly in his château, and Léon, down yonder, always slept.
There was another who at that hour was not asleep.