She turned the key in the lock and on tip-toe crossed the passage full of trunks to go to the kitchen noiselessly. Old Marie was already preparing breakfast.
“Monsieur has just gone out to engage the omnibus,” she explained.
“Without any breakfast?” asked Madame Guibert, thoughtful as ever.
“He did not wish any. He just said he would not wait.”
“And Madame?”
“Madame who? Oh yes, Mademoiselle Paule! I cannot get used to calling her Madame. It’s funny, isn’t it? Mademoiselle is still asleep. There I go again, the same mistake. When one is old, one is good for nothing.”
“It can’t be helped, my poor Marie, we are both old.”
But both of them, paying little heed to what they were saying, were thinking of the parting to come. The servant, taking off her spectacles, passed her rough hand over her eyes. With her shaking fingers Madame Guibert tried to make Paule’s chocolate for the last time. She made it the way she knew her girl liked it. Then she listened at the door, knocked softly, went in, and found Paule in tears.
“Mother, mother! Tell me that I must go. I have not the strength myself to say it.”
Madame Guibert put the steaming cup on the bedside table, then she laid her wrinkled hand on her daughter’s forehead.