"No, spring is there. As soon as the warm weather comes, we shall go to Saint Martin d'Uriage."
"That is the mountains, and you may find it cold there again. You take very poor care of yourself."
She tried to make a slight motion of indifference, but her arm was too weak. As if the future no longer interested her, she explained, with that smile of conscious invalids, which permits them to mitigate the strictness of their doctors' orders:
"I shall soon be better, you will see. My health is good. In any case I have made my will."
"It is absurd! Why these gloomy thoughts?"
"I confide my children to the care of my mother. You understand I do not wish that woman—You will help mamma to put all obstacles aside, will you not?"
"Oh, Madame—"
"Will you promise me? Albert is your friend. He will listen to you."
Philippe rose, adding the melancholy of his hopeless love to his pity, and no longer able to master his emotion:
"No, no, Madame. That will not be."