"He's very nice," I told her. She stared at me a
 
 moment.
 
 "He hasn't been this happy for a while. I should
 
 tell you, since you have become an instant member of
 
 the family, that Pierre, your father, suffers from periods of melancholia. Do you know what that is?" I shook my head. "He falls into deep depressions from
 
 time to time. Without warning," she added.
 
 "Depressions?"
 
 "Yes. He can lock himself away for hours, days
 
 even, and not want to see or speak to anyone. You can
 
 be speaking to him and suddenly, he'll take on a faroff look and leave you in midsentence. Later, he won't
 
 remember doing it," she said. I shook my head. It
 
 seemed incredible that this man with whom I had just
 
 spent several happy hours could be described as she
 
 had described him.
 
 "Sometimes, he'll lock himself in his office and
 
 play this dreadfully mournful music. I've had doctors
 
 prescribe medications, but he doesn't like taking
 
 anything.
 
 "His mother was like that," she continued. "The
 
 Dumas family history is clouded with unhappy
 
 events."
 
 "I know. He told me about his younger
 
 brother," I said. She looked up sharply.
 
 "He told you already? That's what I mean," she
 
 said, shaking her head. "He can't wait to go into these
 
 dreadful things and depress everyone."
 
 "He didn't depress me although it was a very sad story," I said. Her lips tightened and her eyes
 
 narrowed. She didn't like being contradicted. "I suppose he described it as a boating
 
 accident," she said.
 
 "Yes. Wasn't it?"