The pear trees were already in blossom, and Farmer Rouault, on his legs again, came and went, making the farm more full of life.
Thinking it his duty to heap the greatest attention upon the doctor because of his sad position, he begged him not to take his hat off, spoke to him in an undertone as if he had been ill, and even pretended to be angry because nothing rather lighter had been prepared for him than for the others, such as a little clotted cream or stewed pears.

He told stories.

Charles found himself laughing, but the remembrance of his wife suddenly coming back to him depressed him.

Coffee was brought in; he thought no more about her.
He thought less of her as he grew accustomed to living alone.

The new delight of independence soon made his loneliness bearable.