She would not encourage any of them, however.
"If I marry," she said to herself, "it is giving Maxence over to that l'Étang girl. She will crow about it. She will say, 'At last he is mine altogether. She has surrendered.' No, I could not stand that."
So that winter passed, and the next summer, and other winters and summers. Zabette did not marry; and after a time she began hearing herself spoken of as an old maid. The young men flocked to other houses, not hers. At the end of twelve years both her father and mother were dead, and she was alone in the world, thirty, and unprovided for.
It was, of course, fated, that these two women whose lives had been so strangely entangled should drift together again, sooner or later. So long as both were young and could claim love for themselves, jealousy was bound to separate them; but when they found themselves quite alone in the world, no longer beautiful, no longer arousing thoughts of love in the breast of another, the memory of all that was most precious in their lives drew them together as surely as a magnet draws two bits of metal.
It was after mass, one Sunday, that Zabette sought out her rival finally and found the courage to propose a singular plan.
"You are alone, Suzanne," she said. "So am I. We are both poor. Come and live with me."
"And you will give me Maxence?" asked Suzanne, a little hardly.
"No. But I will give you half of him. See, why should we quarrel any more? He is dead. Let us be reasonable. After this he shall belong to both of us."
Still the vieille fille from l'Étang held back, though her eyes softened.