Continuing his walk the Mayor rubbed his hands together and said to his supporters: “I’ve cooked Maillard’s goose for him.”
In the course of the next few days the leading newspapers gave the story of Timmimun in full detail and, without regard to their political views, paid homage to Commander Guibert, whose short career had touched all hearts. The press of Savoy went further still, and, not content with eulogies, vied with one another in the prominence which they gave to his portrait and his biography. In their solitude at Le Maupas the two crushed women received the innumerable testimonies of sympathy which came to them from all parts of France, from the State, from Marcel’s brother officers, known and unknown. They leaned on each other so as to be able to bear their sorrow, and found no consolation but in prayer and in their mutual affection. Only the visits of Madame Saudet, the mother of Madame Étienne Guibert were of any comfort. She understood what to say to those who have suffered separations.
In a swift revolution of sympathy, the world of society, which had not heeded the Guiberts in their honorable ruin, decided to fall in with public opinion. Madame Dulaurens could not stay quiet on this occasion. She induced Mademoiselle de Songeon, Honorary President of the White Cross of Savoy, to take the initiative in organising a funeral service, which was to be celebrated with great ceremony in Chambéry Cathedral. The idea was to monopolize the dead hero and to call attention to his origin in the most befitting manner. The authorities were to be invited to the ceremony. Their presence would enhance the prestige of it, whereas their absence could only embitter the campaign of the Opposition Press. So there was no doubt what would happen.
When everything was prepared, the collections made, the invitations sent out, Mademoiselle de Songeon and Madame Dulaurens were officially delegated to go to Le Maupas to ask the family’s permission. Madame de Marthenay accompanied her mother. She wished to present her condolences to Madame Guibert and to Paule, and had not dared to make the journey alone.
It was the beginning of March. The snow was melting in the desolate, muddy fields and in the sunken roads. Under the lowering sky, surrounded by black, bare trees swaying sadly to and fro, the old country house wore a melancholy and abandoned air.
“I should hate to be buried alive here all the year round,” said Madame Dulaurens to Mademoiselle de Songeon as the carriage drove up the deserted avenue.
“The Church is too far away,” answered the pious old maid.
She did not think that God is everywhere. In spite of her age, she persisted in travelling to meet Him in specially comfortable places.
Old Marie, seeing the carriage, did not refuse to allow the ladies to enter, despite her strict orders. She ran to announce the visitors as fast as her legs could carry her.
“I ordered you not to receive anyone,” said Madame Guibert sadly. And turning to Paule she said: “I have no longer the courage to face people. Why does Madame Dulaurens come to disturb our sorrow? We have nothing in common. What does she want?”