He looked at her tenderly. “I don’t know, Paule dear, I am taking part in an expedition which is preparing to cross the Sahara.”
“Oh,” she cried, “I was sure of it. You ask too much of our courage, Marcel. Mother is old and very worn. She feels our troubles as much as we do ourselves. We must make it easy for her.”
Looking at the peaceful fields, he thought how sweet it would be to stay near his mother and sister. But it was only a passing regret, and he went on:
“Are you not there, you, our sister of charity? I have to go far away. I must forget. Don’t talk about it now. The Moureau expedition is not yet ready. It won’t set out for a year, or more perhaps. I am telling you, because I have no secrets from you. Mother will know about it soon enough.”
“Will this expedition take long?” she asked simply.
“No one can say exactly. Probably eighteen months.”
She tried to master her sorrow, but overwhelmed she burst into tears.
“You don’t know how much Mother and I love you. Oh, if only we could have given our hearts to her who didn’t dare to assert her will, she at least might have been able to do what we cannot, to keep you here.”
He took her in his arms and pressed her to his heart. Sure of this love, whose strength gave him courage, he waited till her despair had passed. But he did not mention Alice. That name should never cross his lips again. He only made a contemptuous allusion to his love.
“Don’t let us speak of that, dear. Such a marriage would only have hampered me. A woman has no right to cramp her husband’s career. What is a love worth that is not strong enough to bear separation and sorrow and to make a sacrifice? You will stay with Mother. My destiny was to be a globe-trotter—worse luck!”