“You are not leaving us already?” asked Madame Guibert timidly.
Jean, to console her, spoke to her of all the ties which still united her to life. They talked about her other children; about her daughter Marguerite, the nun in Paris, the nurse of the sick; of her sons making a new France in far-off lands.
“How many children has Étienne?” he asked.
“He expects the third. I don’t know them, and yet I love them. Oh, I cherish them as the last joys that God has given me. They are called Maurice and Françoise. Did you know that?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jean with a smile.
“Those are my husband’s name and mine. They are the blessing of our race. They are going to call the new one Marcel.”
“And if it is a girl?”
“Still Marcelle. Here is the photograph of the two elder ones.” Already she regarded as living the child that was to come.
“Aren’t they lovely?” said Paule, coming nearer to look at her nephew and niece.
“Yes, the little girl is very like you. She has your dark eyes.”