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He watched them kneeling at his feet and he spit on the ground.

“Is it true you’re going to join the Blackshirts soon?” asked the youngest in the group, who was only sixteen. “If that’s true, put in a word for us with your sister’s friend. He’s important, mention us to him. We’d all like to wear the uniform. And when they give us weapons we’ll be feared and get some respect.”

A car went past them, slowed down, backed up and stopped. In the backseat was a man in a black uniform whom they all recognized. The man stuck his head out the window and looked at Paul for several long moments, then called him over with a flick of his long hairy hand: he wouldn’t budge. The man waited for some time, still leaning out the window; then he slapped the driver’s shoulder, gave him an order, and the car took off.

“Are you insane?” Fred Morin whispered.

A shiver ran through Paul. He gave Fred Morin a withering look, spat on the ground a second time and left. The grandfather was talking quietly with the child on the porch. He walked past them and into his room, opened the drawer, took the knife and tucked it inside his shirt, and went out again. He walked for an hour aimlessly and found himself almost randomly in front of the customhouse where his father worked. He pushed the door and went in. Someone he didn’t know greeted him and asked if he could help him with something.

“I’d like to speak to my father,” he replied.

“And who is your father?”

“Monsieur Normil.”

The employee’s expression changed immediately. He smiled with deliberate friendliness and hastened to admit Paul into the first room, where two typists were at work.

“Come on through, please come on through.”

He saw his father at his desk. He was sitting in a rocking chair and was talking to a tall, very elegant man in a nicely cut dark suit. The man was bowing before him without daring to support himself and, not knowing what to do with his hands, ended up swaying back and forth as though he were walking.

Louis Normil tilted back in his chair, his crossed knees nearly reaching the height of his chest. From on high he looked at the man planted in front of him.

“My dear Monsieur Zura, how could I forget you?” he was saying. “Are you not my superior, rankwise? The key thing is to make an appointment so that we can meet at the notary. I am setting aside one of my best properties for you, I promise. It’s already well planted with trees and, believe me, the neighborhood is pleasant and clean. Trust me, this is an exceptional deal for you.”

M. Zura thanked him and went away without noticing Paul. Looking at the typist who was working across from him, Louis Normil saw that she was staring at something just behind his chair. He suddenly turned around.

“You!” he exclaimed, catching sight of his son. “What can I do for you?”

Paul looked at his father for a moment, then shrugging:

“Nothing,” he answered.

“But come here. Do you need me?”

“No, I was passing by, so I walked in.”

“Are you sure there isn’t something you’re not telling me, some bad news?”

He went pale as he uttered those words, and Paul saw him looking for a place to rest his hand or elbow on the table.

“No, Papa, no, really, it’s nothing.”

He suddenly left his father and made for the exit. He strolled until lunch and found the whole family home. The grandfather and the invalid mingled their mumbling voices in prayer. He took his seat and ate in silence.

“Claude, have you had your bath today?”

“Yes, Mama, Grandfather bathed me as usual.”

“What happened to your hands?” Rose exclaimed. “They’re covered with scratches.”

“I was playing with branches and they had thorns,” he said coldly.

“What branches, what thorns?” Paul asked skeptically.

The mother looked at the invalid’s hands at length and then at the grandfather. He was slowly chewing his food, distant and indifferent to what was going on around him. Indeed, he didn’t seem to hear the child who now turned to him.

“Grandfather,” he insisted, pulling on his sleeve. “Didn’t I get these