more and more difficult to manage. 'Ai! las/ she
might sigh, emon pauvre tout petit Loup, always
longing to be active and well, like you, Christophe;
always trying to do things beyond his poor strength
because he sees how you can work in the shop, and
how strong and splendid your arms are already
when you help your father to lift the big planks . . .'
And Christophe would know that although their
mother had love and to spare for both her children,
she was filled with regret for le tout petit Loup,
and at moments felt even a little jealous of the strength
that had gone to her elder son who already could lift
the big planks with his father. So quite suddenly he
himself must grow sad because he could clearly divine
her sadness, and because he felt very inadequate when-
ever he wanted to offer her comfort.
Then, as likely as not, Marie's conscience would
smite her: 'But why do I speak of these things to you,
Christophe? You are almost as young as le tout petit
Loup/ And perhaps she would tell him to go and find
Jan, and to have a good game without his small
brother: 'Do not take Loup this evening, just play by
yourselves ... I know well that he must often be in
the way. . . .5
But Christophe would hear far more than her
words, he would hear the voice of her heart always
pleading — always pleading on behalf of le tout
petit Loup: cNo, no, I will surely take him,5 he
would answer; and her eyes would be filled with
dumb gratitude and would somehow remind him of
the eyes of Mireio.
For now, what had once come in passing flashes, had
grown into a profound and unavoidable knowledge
of those things that lay hidden in people's hearts:
in the heart of his mother so fearful, so humble; in the
heart of his father who also feared lest grief should
darken the life of his mother; in the poor, angry
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