“And what about your career?” said Madame Guibert, as he rose to say good-bye.
“I am not so passionately fond of it as Marcel was. There is too much wasted time, and forgotten effort.”
They went out on the veranda in front of the house, buried under honeysuckle, roses, and clematis, and they leant over the balcony. This morning at the end of May was a feast for the eyes that rested on it. The air was clear and limpid. A bluish haze, sure presage of the continuance of fine weather, softly outlined the dim mountains. Over yonder the little steeple of Saint-Cassin tapered in the shadow of the chestnuts. Nearer, the fields wore that glory of fresh green which is seen only in springtime. The corn rising from the ground quivered in the passing breeze. The trees in the orchards had already shaken off the white and pink snow of their short-lived blossoms, and every branch was smiling with leaf-buds. Two lime-trees in the corner of the courtyard spread their scent abroad and the chestnuts of the avenue illumined the dark mass of their foliage with white candles.
From the balcony they could hear the eternal song of new life, and could appreciate the never-failing promise which the fruitful earth makes to toiling man.
Before them and around was the youth of the year, the symbol of the duration of life. They gazed and were silent. They were all thinking of Marcel and this too lovely day filled them with sadness.
Bent and weary, her heart obsessed by memories, Madame Guibert left it to Paule to accompany the Captain to the gate. She watched them disappear, thinking tenderly of what might be. She commended Paule’s future to God and went back to ponder in solitude over the sorrowful story she had heard.
Paule and Jean had said good-bye at the end of the avenue. The young man paused to follow the tall, graceful figure gliding through the trees. At the same moment the girl, too, turned round. She blushed at the coincidence and bravely came back that no awkwardness might remain.
“Jean,” she murmured with emotion, “I have never thanked you enough for my brother, who was a little yours too, nor for my mother, to whom your letters and your visit have done so much good. You have been good to us. I could not tell you before, so I came back.”
The emotion which stirred her made her more tender, more human.
“Oh, no,” said the young man. “Do not thank me. Was I not Marcel’s friend?—and our fathers loved each other.”