He felt his sister’s form grow stiff in his arms.
“I was not thinking of myself,” she said, and in this phrase lay a whole world of inward rebellion, which he divined and understood.
She had known sorrow too young, at an age when life was opening with all its charm, and since her father’s death she had experienced much base ingratitude and much insulting patronage to both her mother and herself. From these experiences, she had gained the strength of a stoic, but a bitter pride as well. She had already lost all hope for the future. She tried to forget herself, as she believed herself to be forgotten. The love for her mother and brother satisfied her passion for devotion. Uplifted by her dignity and her contempt for society, she did not seek to analyse the vague feelings which were surging in her ardent heart.
Marcel knew she had the same nature as he, little inclined to talk about self or to worry about her own affairs. He only tried to distract her and spoke with deep affection.
“Paule, don’t despair. One of these days you will be happy. You deserve it so much!”
But she turned the conversation:
“Your trip to Paris was about the expedition, wasn’t it? You never told me about it,” said Paule.
“I did not keep you in the dark long, Paule, not long. I had to fight against all kinds of intrigues and competition. At last I got permission, both for Jean Berlier and myself, to join the expedition.”
“Oh, so M. Berlier is going too?”
“Yes, and he will come back a captain and with the Legion of Honour. It will certainly develop him. The desert widens one’s heart and brain, as the sea does. You don’t think of love-making any more! But why have you left off calling him Jean?”