With an unsteady hand she waited at the table, her red eyes hidden by her spectacles.
“Marie is following my example,” said Madame Guibert. “She is ageing.” And she tried in vain to brighten the conversation.
“You have eaten nothing, Paule. You are ill. Do go to bed. I will warm it for you and make you some tea. It is my turn to look after you.”
“No, thank you. I really don’t want anything. Marie will give me a hot bottle. And you must go to bed early too. Good night, Mamma, dear little Mamma!”
She kissed her mother passionately and went into her room. She was quite exhausted and her courage was gone. She tore off her clothes, unfastened her long hair with a single movement, blew out her candle, and winding herself in her blankets gave way madly to the grief which she had kept back so long. In the darkness her mood changed by turns from despair to revolt, from revolt to resignation and at last to submission and deep pity.
She mourned for her brother, for her mother, and for herself. Turned to the wall and lost in her misery, her face hidden in her handkerchief, she forgot that time was passing and did not hear her mother come to bed.
Madame Guibert slept in the next room. She opened the door gently so as not to awaken her daughter, and yet to be able to hear her in the night if she were not well. Then, as she did every night before undressing, she knelt on her prie-Dieu and said her prayers. As she did every night, she gathered together her dear dead ones and the lying scattered all over the world to beg for them God’s loving care. More particularly she prayed over Paule’s uncertain future and Marcel’s sorrow-stricken heart. A slight deafness and the absorption of her thoughts cut her off from all around her. When she was in bed, she seemed to hear a faint sigh. She listened in vain and reassured herself.
“Paule is asleep,” she thought. “She was pale this evening. Dear little girl. May God keep her and give her happiness! ... Old Marie must have taken cold as well. She had such red eyes and shaking hands. I told her to drink some tea to-night with a little rum in it. It is the rum she likes best!”
Suddenly she sat up. This time she was not mistaken. That stifled sob came from Paule’s bedroom. And listening attentively she made out at last the sound of weeping and despair. Her bosom wrung with a horrible fear, she got out of bed. She was no longer uneasy about her daughter’s health. She understood now this sadness that had made itself felt at Le Maupas all the evening. A calamity had come upon the home, a calamity that they all knew about except herself, something that was terrible, since they had kept it from her. She guessed at the dim and dread presence of her old acquaintance, Death. Whom had it claimed from her now, whom had it struck? ... While she was walking bare-footed, feeling her way in the darkness, she counted the absent ones—Marguerite, Étienne, François, Marcel. Marcel—it was Marcel!
She passed through the half-open door, touched Paule’s bed, and bending towards her she called: