At once his thought leaped from the woman before him to the young companion whom he missed from her side.  In these days of mourning you could never tell who might be still in the land of the living, but he cried impulsively: 

“It was your son who wrote to me?”

“Yes,” said she, “he is a great admirer of yours.  We have both felt drawn to you for a long time.”

“He must come to see me.”

“He cannot do that.”

“Why not?  Is he at the Front?”

“No, he is here.”  After a moment’s silence, Clerambault asked: 

“Has he been wounded?”

“Would you like to see him?” said the mother.  Clerambault walked beside her in silence, not daring to ask any questions, but at last he said:  “You are fortunate at least that you can have him near you always....”  She understood and held out her hand:  “We were always very close to one another,” she said, and Clerambault repeated: 

“At least he is near you.”

“I have his soul,” she answered.

They had now reached the house, an old seventeenth century dwelling in one of the narrow ancient streets between the Luxembourg and St. Sulpice, where the pride of old France still subsists in retirement.  The great door was shut even at this hour.  Madame Froment passed in ahead of Clerambault, went up two or three steps at the back of a paved court, and entered the apartment on the ground floor.

“Dear Edme,” said she, as she opened the door of the room, “I have a surprise for you, guess what it is....”

Clerambault saw a young man looking at him as he lay extended on a couch.  The fair youthful face lit up by the setting sun, with its intelligent eyes, looked so healthy and calm that at first sight the thought of illness did not present itself.

“You!” he exclaimed.  “You here?”

He looked younger than ever with this joyful surprise on his face, but neither the body, nor the arms which were covered, moved in the least, and Clerambault coming nearer saw that the head alone seemed to be alive.

“Mamma, you have been giving me away,” said Edme Froment.

“Did you not want to see me?” said Clerambault, bending over him.

“That is not just what I meant, but I am not very anxious to be seen.”

“Why not?  I should like to know,” said Clerambault, in a tone which he tried to make gay.

“Because a man does not ask visitors to the house when he is not there himself.”

“Where are you?” if one may ask.

“I could almost swear that I was shut up in an old Egyptian mummy”—­he glanced at the bed and his immovable body: 

“There is no life left in it,” he said.

“You have more life than any of us,” said a voice beside them.  Clerambault looked up and saw on the other side of the couch a tall young man full of health and strength, who seemed to be about the same age as Edme, who smiled and said to Clerambault:  “My friend Chastenay has enough vitality to lend me some and to spare.”