His sons, Mère-Grand and Marie raised their heads.
“I’m going out,” he repeated, “au revoir.”
Still he did not go off. Pierre could divine that he was struggling, stiffening himself against the frightful tempest which was raging within him, striving to prevent either shudder or pallor from betraying his awful secret. Ah! he must have suffered keenly; he dared not give his sons a last kiss, for fear lest he might rouse some suspicion in their minds, which would impel them to oppose him and prevent his death! At last with supreme heroism he managed to overcome himself.
“Au revoir, boys.”
“Au revoir, father. Will you be home early?”
“Yes, yes.... Don’t worry about me, do plenty of work.”
Mère-Grand, still majestically silent, kept her eyes fixed upon him. Her he had ventured to kiss, and their glances met and mingled, instinct with all that he had decided and that she had promised: their common dream of truth and justice.
“I say, Guillaume,” exclaimed Marie gaily, “will you undertake a commission for me if you are going down by way of the Rue des Martyrs?”
“Why, certainly,” he replied.
“Well, then, please look in at my dressmaker’s, and tell her that I shan’t go to try my gown on till to-morrow morning.”