“The reason is because they understand only how to amuse themselves.”
Madame Guibert saw a wave of bitterness cross her daughter’s face, whose every expression she knew.
“We must not envy them,” she said. “In amusing themselves, they forget life. They do not know what fills our hearts. I shall soon be sixty years old. Count my sacrifices and the dear ones I have lost. I am separated from my daughter Thérèse and from my husband, who was my strength. Your eldest sister, Marguerite, is a nun, and I have not seen her for five years. Étienne and François are in Tonkin, and I do not know my grandson who has just been born out there. Marcel is coming back after three years of absence and terrible anxiety. Still my lot has been fortunate. I bless God, who tried me after having crowned me with blessings. Every day I have experienced His goodness. Even in my misery He gave me a support in you.”
With her little ungloved hand Paule pressed her mother’s, cracked and wrinkled.
“Yes, Mother, you are right, I shall complain no more.”
The two miles which separate “Le Maupas” from Chambéry were at length covered. Trélaz set the ladies down at the station and drove his conveyance over to a corner of the Square, away from the hotel omnibuses, the cabs, and the carriages. But the rows of horses envied his mare her well-filled bag of hay which he put before her.
Paule, looking at the clock, noticed with surprise that it was only ten minutes past seven. Her mother saw her face.
“I told you that we should be late.”
The girl smiled: “Late because we shall have to wait only twenty minutes?”
They reached the waiting-room, but as soon as Madame Guibert had opened the door she drew back. Paule gently urged her forward. The room was full of people in evening dress. They were the aristocracy of Chambéry waiting for the theatre-train to Aix-les-Bains. Among them were the Dulaurens family.