She said to me: “You have a caterpillar
in your hair.” And, suddenly, I felt as
sad as if I had lost all hope in life.
That is all, madame. It is puerile, silly, stupid.
But I am sure that since that day it would be impossible
for me to love. And yet—who can tell?
[The young man upon whom this letter was found was
yesterday taken out of the Seine between Bougival
and Marly. An obliging bargeman, who had searched
the pockets in order to ascertain the name of the deceased,
brought this paper to the author.]
Mademoiselle Source had adopted this boy under very
sad circumstances. She was at the time thirty-six
years old. Being disfigured through having as
a child slipped off her nurse’s lap into the
fireplace and burned her face shockingly, she had
determined not to marry, for she did not want any
man to marry her for her money.
A neighbor of hers, left a widow just before her child
was born, died in giving birth, without leaving a
sou. Mademoiselle Source took the new-born child,
put him out to nurse, reared him, sent him to a boarding-school,
then brought him home in his fourteenth year, in order
to have in her empty house somebody who would love
her, who would look after her, and make her old age
pleasant.
She had a little country place four leagues from Rennes,
and she now dispensed with a servant; her expenses
having increased to more than double since this orphan’s
arrival, her income of three thousand francs was no
longer sufficient to support three persons.
She attended to the housekeeping and cooking herself,
and sent out the boy on errands, letting him also
occupy himself in cultivating the garden. He
was gentle, timid, silent, and affectionate. And
she experienced a deep happiness, a fresh happiness
when he kissed her without surprise or horror at her
disfigurement. He called her “Aunt,”
and treated her as a mother.
In the evening they both sat down at the fireside,
and she made nice little dainties for him. She
heated some wine and toasted a slice of bread, and
it made a charming little meal before going to bed.
She often took him on her knees and covered him with
kisses, murmuring tender words in his ear. She
called him: “My little flower, my cherub,
my adored angel, my divine jewel.” He softly
accepted her caresses, hiding his head on the old
maid’s shoulder. Although he was now nearly
fifteen, he had remained small and weak, and had a
rather sickly appearance.
Sometimes Mademoiselle Source took him to the city,
to see two married female relatives of hers, distant
cousins, who were living in the suburbs, and who were
the only members of her family in existence. The
two women had always found fault with her, for having
adopted this boy, on account of the inheritance; but
for all that, they gave her a cordial welcome, having
still hopes of getting a share for themselves, a third,
no doubt, if what she possessed were only equally divided.
