Two months had passed since the new soul entered Humbert's life. Gradually, the two began to grow closer. Artaud was beginning to see clearly now how the older man was a man of few words, his face always grim. He often sat alone after work, his life thoroughly routine, marked only by the simplicity of lunch and dinner. There were even rumors about this funeral director—whispers that he was an ill-omened man.
Naturally, Artaud had slowly begun to recover his health, though his sleep remained restless, haunted nightly by nightmares. For some reason, he still hated anything to do with porridge or soup.
During this time, Artaud had learned much from Humbert, as promised. He had accompanied him to several funerals, and he had come to enjoy feeding the horses. He was also getting used to washing the dead. But his favorite part by far was the coffins. He loved to admire them—the way they felt under his fingertips—especially the large, ornate ones. He would trace the elegant curves carefully, studying their every detail with his eyes.
Humbert had also discovered that Artaud couldn't read or write. That led him to begin teaching the boy simple lessons after dinner each night. To his surprise, Artaud was sharp and quick to learn. Contrary to what Humbert had expected, teaching him was no trouble at all. Within a single week, the boy had memorized the alphabet and could already form several words. Reading, however, remained a bit of a challenge.
One day, like any other, while Artaud was sitting and organizing telegrams and Humbert was quietly reading a book, there came a soft knock at the door. Artaud paused and looked toward Humbert, then to the door. When the knock came again, he stood calmly and went to open it.
At the door stood the postman. Without waiting for thanks, he handed Artaud an envelope and continued on his way. Artaud watched him walk off in silence, then gently closed the door and returned to his spot. He stared at the envelope, trying to read the address, but struggled with the first word. The second word, though, he managed to sound out with effort:
"Saint… Ni…co…las…"
He walked over to Humbert, who was sitting near the window, smoking his thin little pipe, and handed him the envelope.
"I couldn't figure out the first word…"
Humbert looked at the address and began opening the envelope as he said:
"It's 'orphanage.'"
"Saint Nicholas Orphanage!"
Humbert glanced at the telegram again to confirm the address.
"Good. You're learning quickly. Now go finish your work."
He removed the pipe from his mouth and began reading. A death, as expected. The orphanage was in the same city, but a bit farther out. So Humbert began preparing for the trip the following evening. That night, they both went to bed early—no nightly lesson—for the journey might take four hours, perhaps longer on the way back.
At dawn the next morning, Artaud awoke before Humbert for the first time. He looked quietly out the window, then rose, his feet meeting the cold floor. He left his room and stepped outside, surveying the sky. A blast of wind struck his cheeks the moment he crossed the threshold. The clouds were heavy and near-black, swallowing the sun. The world was dark despite the early hour. It all reminded him too much of the day his mother died—and it made his stomach ache with a slow, twisting pain.
"Oh, you're already up. Come, let's eat. We're leaving soon."
He turned in alarm to see Mr. Humbert had awoken. He sighed and replied:
"Yes, sir…"
He shut the door and began helping set the table. The creak of the window, the thuds of their steps on the wooden floor—everything sounded louder than usual, none of it comforting.
"Looks like rain. The trip might take longer than expected."
Artaud set the kettle on the fire and tossed in a handful of herbs and a few dried flowers. He hadn't spoken at all during that time, and Humbert noticed the boy's foul mood since waking.
"What's the matter? You feeling unwell?"
Artaud quickly lifted his head, forcing a fake smile onto his face, dragging the corners of his mouth upward.
"Oh… no. I just didn't sleep well."
"You can sleep on the way."
A sudden thump at the window startled them both. They went outside and found a dead bird lying beneath the pane.
"Tell me, Mr. Humbert… does your house attract the dead as well?"
The older man exhaled and rolled his eyes, dismissing it as childish nonsense. Artaud picked up the small bird with his tiny hands and walked to the garden. There, he dug a little hole and buried it.
"Come, let's have our tea, then we'll leave."
The boy nodded silently, then looked back toward the tiny grave he had made. He whispered to himself:
"How ominous…"