The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard

by Anatole France

  Same day.

  In the oddest way that Coccoz family has become associated in my mindwith the Clerk Alexander.

  "Therese," I said, as I threw myself into my easy-chair, "tell me if thelittle Coccoz is well, and whether he has got his first teeth yet--andbring me my slippers."

  "He ought to have them by this time, Monsieur," replied Therese; "but Inever saw them. The very first fine day of spring the mother disappearedwith the child, leaving furniture and clothes and everything behind her.They found thirty-eight empty pomade-pots in the attic. It passes allbelief! She had visitors latterly; and you may be quite sure she is notnow in a convent of nuns. The niece of the concierge says she saw herdriving about in a carriage on the boulevards. I always told you shewould end badly."

  "Therese," I replied, "that young woman has not ended either badly orwell as yet. Wait until the term of her life is over before you judgeher. And be careful not to talk too much with that concierge. It seemedto me--though I only saw her for a moment on the stairs--that MadameCoccoz was very fond of her child. For that mother's love at least, shedeserves credit."

  "As far as that goes, Monsieur, certainly the little one never wantedfor anything. In all the Quarter one could not have found a child betterkept, or better nourished, or more petted and coddled. Every day thatGod makes she puts a clean bib on him, and sings to him to make himlaugh from morning till night."

  "Therese, a poet has said, 'That child whose mother has never smiledupon him is worthy neither of the table of the gods nor of the couch ofthe goddesses.'"