You little bastard,” he said coldly. “You didn’t kill eight wolves by yourself!” His face had an ugly disgusted look to it.
But the remarkable thing was this: Almost as soon as he spoke these words, he realized for some reason that he had made a mistake.
[…]
My mother came in and said I must receive the merchants from the village who wanted to honor me for killing the wolves.
[…]
I was a little overcome. They meant these gestures in the kindest way, these men who had the sort of wealth I only dreamed of, and they paid me respects as the aristocrat.
I took the cloak and the boots. I thanked them as effusively as I’d ever thanked anybody for anything.
And behind me, I heard my brother Augustin say:
“Now he will really be impossible!”
I felt my face color. Outrageous that he should say this in the presence of these men, but when I glanced to Nicolas de Lenfent I saw the most affectionate expression on his face.
“I too am impossible, Monsieur,” he whispered as I gave him the parting kiss. “Someday, will you let me come to talk to you and tell me how you killed them all? Only the impossible can do the impossible.