“He cannot have passed yet,” she thought. “Paule came back so quickly.”
By the light of the setting sun she scanned the deserted road. All round her she heard nothing but the never-ceasing, strident sound of the crickets and the occasional flutter of a heavy chestnut-leaf blown down by the wind. After a few minutes of suspense, she saw the young man’s shadow on the path which skirts the Montcharvin meadows. He walked along with his head bowed, and his body stooping listlessly. As he came nearer she read easily the expression of sadness in his face. So absorbed was he in his sorrow that he did not notice her standing to his right beside the stone column. As he passed her, she called to him:
“Jean!”
Surprised to hear his own name he turned round and saw the old lady smiling sweetly at him. He took off his hat and came up to her.
“I am so unhappy,” he said simply, as if he were telling his troubles to his own mother. Madame Guibert held out her hand to him.
“Jean, give me your arm. Let us go in, night is coming on and it is getting cold.”
He gave her his arm, answering in dull accents: “Madame Guibert, you know that I must not come in any more. But I will take you back as far as the door.”
The golden splashes of twilight sought to blend with the thick trunks of the chestnuts. Daylight was fighting obstinately with darkness. Slowly and silently the pair walked over the gravel of the avenue. At the foot of the steps, as he was going to bid her good-bye she said:
“Come in with me. I want to talk to you. Paule is not in the drawing-room.”
He tried to resist, then gave way indifferently and followed Madame Guibert. He was like a condemned man, who does not believe in the chaplain’s consolations and yet listens to him.