“Paule,” said Madame Guibert, “why are you crying? You must be brave in your happiness, as you have been in your trials.”
The girl had already risen and under cover of the growing darkness, which partly hid the signs of her sorrow, she began at once to defend herself.
“You don’t know what happened, Mother. I do not love him. Only ... his offer was so unexpected, so strange, that I was a little startled. It is the first time, Mother, you know.... But I don’t love him, I assure you.... I cannot do more than I have done.”
Her mother was looking at her with infinite love, as if she were measuring the extent of this devotion which would not confess itself and persisted in denial, even to despair.
“Come with me, Paule,” she said at last. “Jean has not told you everything—Or you left too soon. He did not have time to tell you, dear, that when you go I am going with you.”
As flowers after a heavy shower sparkle in the sunlight which changes their rain-drops to precious stones, so now this tearful face lighted up. Paule threw her arms round her mother’s neck. If Madame Guibert had any doubts about Paule’s secret, this quick change would have enlightened her.
“Mother, is that true? How happy we shall be out there! ... I love you.”
Madame Guibert smiled, fully aware that these three immortal words were not meant for her.
“I knew it well,” she murmured softly, fondling her daughter’s cheek as she used to do when she was but a tiny child. Moved to tears she was thinking of the blossoming of this happiness to which, by a providential chance, she had been allowed to contribute, and under her breath she thanked God, who had answered her prayer.
Shyly and without looking at her mother, Paule asked: “Has he gone?”