“Ah, that is the sorrow of my life.” And breaking down completely, she added in choking accents: “You can cry freely. But I must look happy, and I have death in my soul.... Paule dearest, may God keep you from ever suffering as I do. And it is my fault, Paule. Oh, I would rather be his widow to-day.”
And Paule now understood the secret that was suffocating her friend. Judging by appearances, she had thought her happy. The gossip of the town never reached Le Maupas. Now she saw suddenly how immediate and how lasting was the punishment of the fear of living.
Alice was leaning on Paule’s shoulder as if begging for her help. In spite of the marten cape which covered her, she was shaking from head to foot. The girl kissed her and lifting her sweet, tear-stained face said:
“Poor Alice, how I pity you! Be brave. One has to be. You must forget about it. Think of your child. Make a stronger woman of her.”
“I loved him,” she answered faintly.
Madame Guibert came back and, seeing the two embracing each other, she understood the reason of their emotion.
“Your mother is waiting for you, Madame.” She tried to find something else to say, and murmured: “I thank you for your visit.”
Feeling that she was pardoned, Alice took her hand and touched it with her lips. She dried her eyes, looked once more at Marcel’s photograph ... and fled.
The carriage swept down the bare avenue and passed through the old gate. Madame Dulaurens, uneasy over her daughter’s stay, was gazing at her anxiously, affectionately, jealously. She avoided remarking on Madame Guibert’s refusal and Paule’s attitude, and when they came out of the oakwood she laid her hand on Alice’s arm as she sat facing her.
“You see how sensible your mother is,” she said to her in a low voice. Mademoiselle de Songeon was looking out on the melancholy landscape on the other side.