They disappeared behind the trees. Slowly and with a heavy heart the old lady went in to her house, and as she prepared herself for this last sacrifice she repeated to herself:
“My darling little Paule, and I have lost her! May you be happy. You have deserved it for your dear care of me. Be happy—it is all I ask of God.”
Above the Vimines road, a path cut off by a screen of poplars from Forezan’s steep slopes skirts the fields and leads to Montcharvin farm. Paule and Jean followed it, the girl walking in front.
“Let us go as far as the ash-wood,” she said. “We shall be able to see the sunset reflected on the mountains through the trees.”
He stopped. “No, let us stay here, will you not?” And he pointed to the old felled tree-trunk which served as a bench. She had never sat there since her last walk with Marcel. Thinking of this, she hesitated. She had no idea what Jean had to say to her. Little accustomed to thinking of her own affairs and resigned to her destiny as a penniless girl, she never gave love or marriage a thought. She believed she had stifled forever the feelings which had once caused her so much suffering, and kept jealous watch over the heart for which no one asked. She consented to sit down. For a moment they were silent, side by side.
The sun had disappeared behind the nearby mountains. Round them they were conscious of the peace of evening falling over the land, like a holy presence. At their feet the ripe cornfields waved gently. Further away the trees in the wood gathered their leaves together and sought calm repose. On the horizon the cliffs of Mount Revard, still touched by the sunlight, shone with bright pinks and violets. The happy omen in this peace of nature increased Jean’s emotion. He looked at the girl beside him and was happy at the thought of what he was about to say to her.
She remembered with painful clearness the words which Marcel had spoken to her on this same tree-trunk on the evening before he left for Africa.
“Paule,” she could hear in the voice that was for ever hushed, “do not be anxious, you will be happy some day.” Since Jean’s return she accepted her life bravely and without bitterness. She felt a kind of stoical happiness which satisfied her after so many blows. Was that the happiness Marcel had meant? In this peaceful hour, the vague longing for joy of another kind rose up in her. Still, she did not know that the time had come.
Jean made up his mind to speak.
“I have been speaking to your mother, Paule, of my plans for the future,” he said.