“I cannot stay here any longer,” she thought When she stood up she had to hold on to the wall and she wondered if she would have the strength to reach the house.
She felt her age and her weakness hanging like heavy weights on her shoulders. She remembered the day when she dragged herself through the endless chestnut avenue at La Chênaie. On the threshold of the station she thought anxiously of the long road home. But accustomed as she was to spend nothing on herself she did not dream of hiring one of the cabs in the Square.
She set out slowly, leaning on the umbrella which served her as a stick and putting her feet down carefully so as not to slip on the snow. The hardships of her journey made her forget her sorrow, but when she stopped a moment she whispered gently the name of Paule—of Paule who would never, never be her help again. Her mind was following the two dear ones who were carrying away with them all her happiness.
“They have reached the waterfall at Coux now.... O God!”
As she was crossing the bridge over the muddy waters of the Leysse she stopped and leaned on the parapet to take breath. At that moment she heard someone call. “Madame Guibert,” said the voice, “will you allow me to come with you?” It was Madame de Marthenay, who had watched her from the station, hesitating between the wish to help her, according to the promise she had made to Paule, and the fear of breaking in upon her absorbing sorrow. Seeing her now in distress, she came forward.
Madame Guibert was so tired that she took the arm offered to her. In her sorrow she hardly spoke during the walk home. Alice, with tactful delicacy, tried to console her in talking of the joy her children would have when they saw her again. On the doorstep Paule’s mother thanked her gratefully.
“But I am going to help you upstairs,” Madame de Marthenay insisted.
“You are very kind. Thank you very much.” And when they were at the head of the stairs she added: “Come in for a minute. You must rest a little. I leaned very heavily on your arm along the road.” The poor weary eyes in their appeal laid bare the tragedy of the desolate home.
“I shall be very glad,” said Alice, moved to deep sympathy as she followed the old lady into a bedroom, changed by means of a screen into a little sitting-room by day. Marie the maid, still overwhelmed by “Mademoiselle’s” departure, brought in a telegram.
“Here is a message,” she said, with a hostile glance at the elegant Madame de Marthenay.