diffidence, fear; but above all the imperative summons
of life, the urge to beget in triumph through pain, a
primitive, brutal, tenacious urge. Aye, and the joy
of enduring pain. . . . Thus they saw each other
across the years as courageous, forceful, and pregnant
with meaning. And standing there they forgot their
children in those irresistible thoughts of creation;
forgot Loup who was playing at dominoes with his
brother beside the lamp on the table, forgot Christophe
the splendid first-fruit of their love, the seed of whose
body they had sown in passion and prayer and in
hope that had long been deferred — even him they
forgot because they remembered.
But presently Loup must begin to cough: cMaman,
my chest hurts — it hurts!9 he said loudly; and he
swept the dominoes onto the floor, CI will not play
any longer, Christophe. You cheat. Many times I
have seen you cheat!5 For le tout petit Loup loathed
the pain in his chest and must seek to wound some one,
himself being wounded.
Christophe frowned; then he noticed his mother's
eyes that had once more grown pleading, tired and
maternal. He wanted to hit le tout petit Loup, to
give him a mighty hard clout on the ear for the spite-
ful, bad-tempered child that he was, always meanly
untruthful when he was losing. But instead he went
down on his hands and knees and collected the
dominoes under the table, for what else could one do
when beneath it all one perceived the infinite pathos
of the creature, and the pleading that lay in his
mother's eyes? Nothing, except to swear softly to one's
self as one groped about:
'Sarnipabieune!* swore Christophe.
§5
Towards Christmas Goundran arrived one morning
to announce his intention of doing up his house: Tor/