When they finally close Célestine’s casket, young Isidore Ducasse, who is also locked within his own private universe, sees himself as condemned to fulfill a sinister destiny, surrounded by strange offerings and merely compensatory attention. At this tense moment, not even Maná’s sincere promise prevents him from secretly recriminating the attitude of his mother for the privilege of bringing justice with her own hands. To general disgust, he wants to know why they locked his mother inside; he wants to see her up walking and playing with him, and he goes around telling everyone that he wants to stay with her. He jumps nervously, but his rapid talking loses its vigor, then comes uncontained weeping, followed by convulsive choking brought on by a deep rasping cough, the vestige of a poorly cured case of whooping cough, or the beginning of the purest supplication of a naïve soul that cries out in pain, and because it hurts so much, its tears burn and migrate, and they migrate with greater burning when they do not spill only from his eyes, but from the dark depths of his senses, virgin senses, never before touched by the pricks of life, nor by the pain that pours down his face like an endless rivulet. Once again he shows a certain lack of comprehension, a certain despair, and he becomes equally incomprehensible when he looks at each person and perceives the turning away of the glances that are hiding behind every hand or every guilt.

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