while he was digging some cabbage-bed, he kept watching her, as he
worked, in a sly, continuous fashion.

It was in vain that she asked him:

"What's the matter with you, my boy? For the last three years, you have
become very different. I don't find you the same. Tell me what ails you,
and what you are thinking of, I beg of you."

He invariably replied, in a quiet, weary tone:

"Why, nothing ails me, Aunt!"

And when she persisted, appealing to him thus: "Ah! my child, answer me,
answer me when I speak to you. If you knew what grief you caused me, you
would always answer, and you would not look at me that way. Have you any
trouble? Tell me, I'll console you!" he would turn away with a tired
air, murmuring:

"But there is nothing the matter with me, I assure you."

He had not grown much, having always a childish aspect, although the
features of his face were those of a man. They were, however, hard and
badly cut. He seemed incomplete, abortive, only half finished, and
disquieting as a mystery. He was a close impenetrable being, in whom
there seemed always to be some active, dangerous mental travail taking
place.

Mademoiselle Source was quite conscious of all this, and she could not,
from that time forth, sleep at night, so great was her anxiety.