Another year flitted by, and it seemed to her that a fresh change had taken place in the mind of the young man.  She perceived it; she felt it; she divined it.  How?  No matter!  She was sure she was not mistaken; but she could not have explained in what manner the unknown thoughts of this strange youth had changed.

It seemed to her that, until now, he had been like a person in a hesitating frame of mind, who had suddenly arrived at a determination.  This idea came to her one evening as she met his glance, a fixed, singular glance which she had not seen in his face before.

Then he commenced to watch her incessantly, and she wished she could hide herself in order to avoid that cold eye riveted on her.

He kept staring at her, evening after evening, for hours together, only averting his eyes when she said, utterly unnerved: 

“Do not look at me like that, my child!”

Then he would lower his head.

But the moment her back was turned she once more felt that his eyes were upon her.  Wherever she went, he pursued her with his persistent gaze.

Sometimes, when she was walking in her little garden, she suddenly noticed him hidden behind a bush, as if he were lying in wait for her; and, again, when she sat in front of the house mending stockings while he was digging some vegetable bed, he kept continually watching her in a surreptitious manner, as he worked.

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 recognize you.  Do tell me what ails you, and what you are thinking of.”

He invariably replied, in a quiet, weary tone: 

“Why, nothing ails me, aunt!”

And when she persisted: 

“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 comfort you!”

He went 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 look, although his features 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 self-contained, unapproachable being, in whom there seemed always to be some active, dangerous mental labor going on.  Mademoiselle Source was quite conscious of all this, and she could not sleep at night, so great was her anxiety.  Frightful terrors, dreadful nightmares assailed her.  She shut herself up in her own room, and barricaded the door, tortured by fear.

What was she afraid of?  She could not tell.

She feared everything, the night, the walls, the shadows thrown by the moon on the white curtains of the windows, and, above all, she feared him.