The long vacation did not bring its usual gaiety and diversions, that year. Mélanie’s departure for the convent, and that of Stephen, young as he was, for the Seminary had been finally decided upon. They were merely waiting for the month of October; then father would take his daughter to Paris and at the same time would place me in the school where my two elder brothers had finished their preparatory studies--for I had gained my point--and mother would go to Lyons with Stephen. This knowledge cast over our games and our gatherings a shade of sadness, which those concerned tried in vain to clear away. Aunt Deen, who was growing a little heavier, climbed the stairs more slowly, blew her nose noisily, prayed very loud and with a certain impetuosity which must have shaken the saints in Paradise, and murmured Thy will be done in a tone that could hardly pass for one of submission. Grandfather shut himself up in his tower, playing his violin with hands that trembled, adding other notes than those of the score, went out for his walk at nightfall without a word to any one, and seemed to be living in ignorance and indifference concerning all that was going on in the family. When he met me he would simply make the remark, accompanied with his little laugh, “Ah, there you are!” while he never spoke to either of my brothers or sisters as he passed them. But his laugh did not ring true; my ear was quick to perceive that our separation weighed upon him. I would gladly have rushed to him if he had not had an air of thinking lightly of all the vexations in the world. The shadow of my father was always between us. I had had no orders to avoid him; our alienation was by tacit consent. We had never dared to confess to any complicity. One day, however, he added: “So, you are going to Paris?” “Yes, grandfather, when schools open.” “You are in luck. One feels more free in Paris than anywhere else. You will see.” Was he jesting again? For me Paris meant boarding school, prison. And besides, had he not often told me that large cities are baneful, that real happiness was to be found only in the fields? But grandfather cared little enough for logic. My approaching departure--that departure which I had proudly demanded, and which inspired within me a secret repulsion against which I hardened myself, made but small stir in the house--a fact that greatly irritated my self-love--being lost in that of Mélanie and my brothers, as a small boat is lost in the wake of a great vessel. Bernard, who had graduated from Saint-Cyr with a high grade that put him in the marine infantry, would go to Toulon, whence he would shortly embark for Tonkin. Now his first word, on his return home had been--I heard him say it to Aunt Deen, who had hastened, breathless, to open the door, “You can’t imagine the pleasure with which I ring this bell.” Then why did he ask to go to China? Mélanie and Stephen, too, exchanged mystifying confidences.