As they neared Chambéry, a break drawn by two fast-trotting horses, passed Trélaz’s old coach.
“It is the Dulaurens’s carriage,” said Paule. “They are going to Aix. They did not bow to us.”
“I don’t suppose they recognised us.”
“Oh, yes, they did. But since we gave up our fortune to save uncle people do not bow to us as they used to.”
She alluded to a family misfortune which had occurred shortly before her father’s death. Madame Guibert took her daughter’s hand:
“But that is nothing, dear. Just think, in a few minutes we shall see Marcel.”
After a short silence Paule asked:
“Wasn’t it father who attended and cured Alice Dulaurens, during that epidemic of typhoid fever at Cognin which finally carried him off?”
“Yes,” murmured the old woman, depressed at this recollection. And it was she who continued softly and uncomplainingly:
“And they even forgot to settle the bill for attendance. That is often the way with rich people. They don’t know what it means for others to live.”