Bleak and melancholy are these two men, with faces absorbed in dread.
Soon as they tread the steps to the chamber above them, a conversation begins:
“It is absurd how Devorah has shown herself that way! She revealed herself with such lasciviousness to her aspects! How is she upon the stage? I have seen her, though I did not see her.” And these were Bertrand’s words, spoken with the highest tone dedicated to frustration.
“We both saw her,” says Antoine, as he settles into a position of comfort so that his words may spill, unhindered. He continues, “There is as much passion in her, as there is seduction, albeit raving in the latter, and dreary in the former. There is nothing that I admire more, though despise no less.”
“Are such words necessary, my friend, Antoine? That you’d describe her in such a fashion has begun to irritate me,” says Bertrand, casting a dark shade of a glance upon his mellow expression.
“I have begun, myself, to notice that you find fault with everything. Though, I don’t mean to criticize harshly; as I simply mean that you never see brightness,” and the awkwardness is clearly perceived from Antoine’s words, should the reader recall Antoine’s life.
From a dark shade, comes bewilderment, and Bertrand says, “Your mention of me speaking through negativity, is strange enough for you, since you cannot even fathom the opposite. Your home, and your place, is less embroidered in good fortune than from mine. How long ago did your father pass? Your mother fell into a total despair, not very long afterwards, and I see her! Her hair clings to her neck, and her eyes are full of tears, during each moment of the day. This would be, of course, during any time I’d visit you. For I never see her anywhere else, because she doesn’t seem to leave your home, does she?”
“No,” says Antoine, with a single monosyllable word, that was enough for an answer to that disdainful question.