I was curious to know what impression this
sudden death had made upon the captain. And, as
my masters were visiting, I took a walk in the
afternoon along the hedge. The captain’s garden
is sad and deserted. A spade stuck in the ground
indicates abandoned work. "The captain will not
come into the garden," said I to myself; "he is
undoubtedly weeping in his chamber, among the
souvenirs." And suddenly I perceive him. He
has taken off his fine frock-coat, and put on his
working-clothes again, and, with his old foraging-cap on his head, he is engaged in manuring his
lawns. I even hear him humming a march in a
low voice. He leaves his wheelbarrow, and comes
toward me, carrying his fork on his shoulder.
"I am glad to see you, Mademoiselle
Célestine."
I should like to offer him consolation or pity. I search for words, for phrases. But how can one find a touching word in presence of such a droll face? I content myself with repeating:
"A great misfortune, captain, a great misfortune for you! Poor Rose!"
"Yes, yes," he says, tamely.
His face is devoid of expression. His movements are uncertain. He adds, jabbing his fork into a soft spot in the ground near the hedge:
"Especially as I cannot get along without anybody."
