“No,” repeated Madame Guibert, “you did not know how to love. When you give your heart it is for ever. And love gives you strength and patience and endurance. Your mother was seeking your happiness, dear, but she was seeking it in her own way. She thought she was acting right when she turned you from my son. Don’t blame her, only blame yourself. There was no doubt that Madame Dulaurens would have yielded in the long run, to a real affection, because she loved you and would have seen the object of your love to be worthy of her approval.” She did not notice that she had drawn away her hand, and under the influence of the past she reiterated: “No, you did not want to be Marcel’s wife.”
Alice was quite crushed and could only whisper, “I love him still.” Distractedly she clung to her fruitless love.
In a firmer voice Madame Guibert went on: “You were afraid of life. Your parents were afraid for you. Life, Alice, does not mean just amusement and worldly excitement. To live means to feel one’s soul, all one’s soul. It means to love, to love with all one’s strength, always, to the end, and even to the point of sacrifice. You must not fear either suffering or great joy or great sorrow. They reveal our higher nature. We must take from the fleeting days the happiness that endures. The girl who marries comes to share in work and danger, not just to seek greater ease or more frivolous pleasures. In her very devotion she will find more delight. You do not know this.”
Alice, encouraged, thought as she listened attentively, “Nobody ever talked to me like this before.”
“Even now,” went on Madame Guibert, “even in this hour when my heart is broken, I can only thank God who has heaped His blessing on me. It surprises you, my dear, that I can talk of my happiness to you to-day. It is true nevertheless. I am happy. If God asked me to begin my life all over again, I would do so. And yet, I have seen the dearest faces cold and still, and I have known the cruellest form of death for a mother—that which strikes her child far away. But through my husband, through my sons and daughters, I realised all my heart and what may come upon us by the divine goodness. My life has been quite full, since it was mixed with theirs. Now I am no longer alone. My beloved dead keep me company and the living do not desert me. Look at this telegram I have had from Étienne. He knows that Paule has left me to-day and he is comforting me in the name of them all. I had need of it!”
“Madame!” whispered Alice, kissing her hand.
“Yes, my dear, I have loved my life, I have loved life itself. And I can die, even alone, even if strange hands close my eyes. God has made my lot a very beautiful one and death will find me obedient and resigned.” Her clear eyes shone with a holy ecstasy.
Alice, her heart at peace, looked at her respectfully and admiringly.
“Go on talking to me,” she begged as Madame Guibert was silent.
The latter looked at her long and tenderly, then again stroking her cheek, she said: