The old gate at Le Maupas was open as of old. Jean went up the chestnut avenue, breathing in the scent of the blossoms. He knew that in a few minutes the tears would flow again, sad but salutary too. At the crunching of the gravel in the courtyard, an old woman who was seated on the steps, working with slow hands in the cool morning air, arose. Her eyes sought the visitor. She saw who it was.
“Is that you, Jean? How I have waited for you!”
At the first glance, he took in the marks of her sufferings. She was more bent, and her hair was whiter. But he recognized with surprise on her thin face an expression of peace which he had seen before.
“Madame Guibert!” he cried.
He sped up the steps and, bending forward with his natural grace, kissed her. Madame Guibert vainly tried to keep back her tears and murmured Marcel’s name.
“Come in,” she said at last. “We shall be able to speak of him better in the drawing-room.”
She led the way with lagging steps. Then she opened a door and called:
“Paule! Here is Jean Berlier!”
“I arrived late last night,” he explained. “And I have come to you this morning. I was so anxious to see you again.”
“You are good to us. I knew you would come at once. We have been looking for you for some days.”