She received no reply. She began to be afraid. She felt herself in a solitude of death.
“Mamma, am I not your daughter, your last child, your little Paule?” she sobbed in despair.
Madame Guibert seemed to wake from her lethargy. She saw the sorrowful face turned up towards her in anguish. A long shiver shook her body. She was conquered, she held out her arms to her daughter, and leaning against her she wept. It was she who in her weakness begged for help.
For a long time the two women remained thus, mingling their tears and their grief, knowing the sad sweetness of loving each other in suffering.
When the mother was able to speak, it was to thank the Almighty.
“Paule, my dear Paule, what did I say a few minutes ago? God is good. He might afflict me still more. He gave you to me in my distress to help me. And I refused to bow myself before Him. O God, Thy Will is cruel, and yet may Thy Name be praised!”
Finding her courage again she asked to see the fatal telegram. She read it through several times and discussed it with Paule.
“He is indeed dead.... But he is living again ... he is with God.”
“Yes,” said the girl. “He died a conqueror—He was shot in the forehead.”
They were silent. They both saw Marcel’s beautiful forehead covered with blood, that high forehead which was the temple of such proud thoughts.