CHAPTER xxvm
§'
SPRING came, and as though the hopeful season
only served to make Jouse more hopeless by con-
trast, his fits of sudden anger increased as did also
those moods of despondent brooding. Not for long
had he managed to keep from wine after that sterile
Christmas confession, but now when he drank there
would follow remorse — a fresh scourge for tormented,
drink-sodden nerves and arteries growing always
more brittle. At such times he could hardly endure
to see Anfos with his mouth sagging open as he bent
to his carving, and yet he must stare at the ungainly
sight as though it possessed some grim fascination:
cDieuP he would mutter; 'the man looks like a
beast; that face of his has become scarcely human.5
And conscious of those watchful, hostile eyes,
Anfos would often jump up in a panic, letting the
carving slip from his knees as he scuttled away to
hide himself in the attic, the shed, or even the privy.
Then Jouse would heave an unhappy sigh and turn
to his son as though dumbly appealing; 'What am
I doing?' he would seem to ask, as his bloodshot and
hostile eyes grew remorseful.
In silence Christophe would leave the workshop,
bent on consoling the luckless apprentice, and the
man would cling to him desperately: They will
send poor Anfos away, little master, and what will
become of him all alone? No one cares for him but
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