He listened to her, but apparently with some slight sensation of pain that made him bend his neck in a shrinking way. ‘You are better now, however,’ she went on. ‘Well enough to come down whenever you like---- Why don’t you say anything? Have you lost your tongue? Oh, what a baby! Why, I shall have to teach him how to talk!’ And thereupon she really did amuse herself by telling him the names of the things he touched. He could only stammer, reiterating the syllables, and failing to utter a single word plainly. However, she began to walk him about the room, holding him up and leading him from the bed to the window--quite a long journey. Two or three times he almost fell on the way, at which she laughed. One day he fairly sat down on the floor, and she had all the trouble in the world to get him up on his feet again. Then she made him undertake the round of the room, letting him rest by the way on the sofa and the chairs--a tour round a little world which took up a good hour. At last he was able to venture on a few steps alone. She would stand before him with outstretched hands, and move backwards, calling him, so that he should cross the room in search of her supporting arms. If he sulked and refused to walk, she would take the comb from her hair and hold it out to him like a toy. Then he would come to her and sit still in a corner for hours, playing with her comb, and gently scratching his hands with its teeth. At last one morning she found him up. He had already succeeded in opening one of the shutters, and was attempting to walk about without leaning on the furniture. ‘Good gracious, we are active this morning!’ she exclaimed gleefully. ‘Why, he will be jumping out of the window to-morrow if he has his own way---- So you are quite strong now, eh?’ Serge’s answer was a childish laugh. His limbs were regaining the strength of adolescence, but more perceptive sensations remained unroused. He spent whole afternoons in gazing out on the Paradou, pouting like a child that sees nought but whiteness and hears but the vibration of sounds. He still retained the ignorance of urchinhood--his sense of touch as yet so innocent that he failed to tell Albine’s gown from the covers of the old armchairs. His eyes still stared wonderingly; his movements still displayed the wavering hesitation of limbs which scarce knew how to reach their goal; his state was one of incipient, purely instinctive existence into which entered no knowledge of surroundings. The man was not yet born within him. ‘That’s right, you’ll act the silly, will you?’ muttered Albine. ‘We’ll see.’ She took off her comb, and held it out to him. ‘Will you have my comb?’ she said. ‘Come and fetch it.’