but that he had to resign his post. He wrote to me about a woman whom I did not know, he wrote to me about you, dear. I breathed again, I thought to myself, 'He is not dead, I have not lost my son.' But Father thought differently: he said, 'Henri is dead, we have lost our son.' Then I knew that my presentiment was right, that he was dead. . . . He was dead . . . and he stayed dead for years and years. . . . Oh, how I longed for him to come to life again! Oh, how I kept on thinking of my child! . . . But year followed upon year; and he remained dead. . . . Then by degrees I began to feel that it would not always be like that, that things would be a little brighter one day, that he would come back out of that distant death. . . . He came back; I had my boy back. . . . I saw you . . . for the first time. Long dead years lay between us; and, when I wished to embrace you, I felt that I could not, that I did not reach you. My words did not reach you. They remained lying between us, they fell between us like hard, round things. . . . I knew then that you had suffered much and also that for long, long years you had been full of grief and resentment . . . grief and resentment. . . . You brought us your child: you brought him grudgingly. . . . Hush, don't cry, don't cry: it couldn't be helped. There was bound to be that feeling, that grudge, inside you . . . oh, I knew how it rankled! People are always like
