The kiss to the leper

JEAN PELOUEYRE was lying on his bed. He opened his eyes and listened for a moment to the buzzing of the grasshoppers outside. The sun was pouring in through the blinds like some bright, hot metal, and he stood up swallowing the bitterness in his mouth. He was so short that he could see his wretched face in the low mirror between the windows: hollow cheeks, a long red nose that looked as though it had been worn away to a point like a well-sucked stick of barley-sugar, a sharp angle of close-cut hair pointing down over a wrinkled forehead. He made a face at the reflection and saw two rows of decayed teeth. He had never so hated himself, but a few pitying words escaped his lips: “Out for a walk, you poor devil,” and his hand went to his ill-shaven chin. But how was he to get out without waking his father? Between one and four, M. Jêrome Péloueyre imposed complete silence upon the house, and these hours of repose kept him from dying of nightly insomnia. The house was numbed; no door could be shut or opened, not a word or a sneeze could break the silence to which, by ten years of complaints and entreaties, he had trained Jean and the servants. Even the people in the street lowered their voices as they passed beneath his windows, and carriages drove a block out of their way to avoid rattling past his door.