“Paule, tell me, what is the matter?”
She dared ask no more.
The girl, suddenly roused in a paroxysm of sorrow, gave a cry of distress which told her secret: “Mamma!”
“It is Marcel, is it not?” said Madame Guibert breathlessly. “You have bad news about Marcel!”
“Mother, Mother,” murmured Paule.
“He is ill, very ill?”
“Yes, Mother dear, he is ill.” And Paule, half raising herself in bed, put her arms round her mother’s neck. Gently but firmly Madame Guibert pushed her away.
“He is dead?”
“Oh!” cried the girl. “Wait till to-morrow, Mother. We shall have news. Be strong, Mother. We don’t know.”
“You have had something, a letter, a telegram. Show them to me. I must see them.”