“My son!” she cried, and, in spite of her resolution to be brave, she burst into sobs.
But Marcel straightened himself up after the embrace and gazed with tender emotion at this old figure on whom trials had left their traces. A change came over the bronzed, almost hard, features of the young man. There was no need for them to utter the name that trembled on their lips, and the same pious memory stirred both their hearts. The joy of the meeting gave a poignant new life to the old sorrow.
Paule contemplated with a softened expression her tall, handsome brother and her old mother. By the step of their compartment Alice Dulaurens and Isabelle Orlandi turned, and they too watched the greetings. The eyes of the first rested sympathetically on Marcel, while the eyes of the second looked ironically at Madame Guibert’s stout and agitated form.
Jean Berlier, standing slightly aside, was waiting respectfully. He now came up to Paule.
“How happy they are!” he said. And then he added, with a tinge of melancholy, “When I return from Algeria no one is ever waiting for me.”
As Marcel kissed his young sister, Jean came forward, crying:
“Have you a greeting for me too?”
“What, Jean!” said Marcel, and the two men embraced warmly. Jean was moved but in an instant he was again smiling gaily.
“I shall see you soon,” he said. “I must run now. My train is going.”
“Where are you off to?” asked Marcel.