Nicola and James, now grown beyond babyhood, used to accompany us in these walks which were such a bore to me, and which recalled others, that I had loved; they were interested in his conversation, which almost became a monologue, and in after years I discovered in them the impress of these teachings by which they had unconsciously profited, while I was determinedly refractory to them. Sometimes I would hear in his voice--suddenly grown imperious--the echo of that which on that memorable day had thrilled me to the marrow, and I almost expected to hear him say, as then, _But understand me, poor child. You must indeed understand me--your future is at stake_--then the excited voice would calm itself, or would be silent. My father had recognised the uselessness of his effort. I was able also effectively to evade the solicitations of my mother, who sought my confidence and was troubled by my indifference to religion. “You don’t pray enough,” she would say to me. “You don’t know how necessary it is. It is the most real thing in the world.” I had, however, been clever enough to resume relations with grandfather without awakening suspicion. We used to practise together, though he trembled a little and his violin seemed tremulous. Or we would discuss a sonata or a symphony for hours together. Thus I had watched him admiringly years ago, in the Café des Navigateurs, getting off into a corner with Gallus. If any member of the family undertook to join in our conversation we would gaze at him in a superior manner, as at a profane person incapable of an intelligent opinion. Music could have meaning only for us; it belonged to us; and through it we resumed our former intimacy. I had entered upon my eighteenth year when the event occurred which was to decide my future life. The baccalaureates had covered me with honour, and for a year past I had been preparing for the Central School, with no particular drawing toward it, and even with perfect indifference. A certain taste for natural sciences, purposely abandoned, had for a time given my father the false hope that I should return to the plans of my childhood, and could even be his successor some day. But I had chosen the calling of engineer because it would take me away from home, and permit me to be my own master. When the time came for us to return home the first figure that we never failed to see on the platform at the station was that of our father, who had hastened to meet us. His face would be actually illuminated with paternal love. I used to greet him as if I had left him the day before, but he would not let himself be put off so, and would always open his arms to me as if he were finding me after I had long been lost. These effusions in public appeared to me very vulgar, and I evaded them most artfully.