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Updated: May 1, 2025
Jeanne held Poulet in a long embrace, while Aunt Lison remained in the background, her face hidden in her handkerchief. The baron, however, who was becoming affected, cut short the adieus by dragging his daughter away. They got into the carriage and went back through the darkness to "The Poplars," the silence being broken by an occasional sob.
Suddenly Jeanne fell on her knees, and taking her aunt's hands away from her face, said in perplexity: "Why, what is the matter, Aunt Lison?" Then the poor woman, her voice full of tears, and her whole body shaking with sorrow, replied: "It was when he asked you are not your your dear little feet cold? no one ever said such things to me to me never never "
Lison started up, left her wool on the ground and her knitting on the armchair, and abruptly leaving the room, groped her way up the dark staircase to her bedroom. The two young people looked at one another, feeling sorry for her, and yet rather amused. "Poor auntie," murmured Jeanne. "She must be a little mad this evening," replied Julien.
For a moment Jeanne and the vicomte stood looking at her in mute surprise, then Jeanne, feeling frightened, knelt down beside her, drew away her hands from her face, and asked in dismay: "What is it, Aunt Lison? What is the matter with you?"
Jeanne watched with anxiety the great kisses he gave his grandfather after a ride on his knee, and Aunt Lison, neglected by him as she had been by every one else and treated often like a servant by this little tyrant who could scarcely speak as yet, would go to her room and weep as she compared the slight affection he showed her with the kisses he gave his mother and the baron.
Aunt Lison had already gone to her room, so the baron and his wife were left alone with Julien. They all three felt very awkward, and could think of nothing to say; the two men, in their evening-dress, remained standing, looking into space, and Madame Adélaïde leant back in her armchair, her breast still heaved by an occasional sob.
The baroness would carelessly look at the work and answer: "Don't take so much trouble over it, my dear Lison." About the end of the month, after a day of sultry heat, the moon rose in one of those warm, clear nights which seem to draw forth all the hidden poetry of the soul.
They squeezed each other's fingers without speaking, as though they had left their bodies and formed part of this visible poetry that exhaled from the earth. All at once Jeanne perceived, framed in the window, the silhouette of the aunt, outlined by the light of the lamp behind her. "See," she said, "there is Aunt Lison looking at us."
And little mother, as she carelessly examined the objects, would reply: "Do not give yourself so much trouble, my poor Lison." One evening, toward the end of the month, after an oppressively warm day, the moon rose on one of those clear, mild nights which seem to move, stir and affect one, apparently awakening all the secret poetry of one's soul.
She seemed to be there with father and little mother, and sometimes even with Aunt Lison. She did over again things forgotten and done with, thought she was supporting Madame Adelaide in her walk along the avenue. And each awakening was attended with tears. She thought continually of Paul, wondering what he was doing how he was whether he sometimes thought of her.
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