“But you are not thinking of going back?” enquired Paule anxiously. “Mother has aged greatly. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, she is a little bent now, and her cheeks are sometimes pale. You are watching over her for us. You are our security, Paule, the comfort of all the rest of us, who are scattered over the world.”
The girl did not reply. Marcel regretted his remark, for he felt its selfishness. Of all Dr. Guibert’s children Paule had suffered most directly from the blow of the financial disaster which had crushed the whole family through the misfortunes of an uncle. She had lost her dowry and thereby many a chance of marriage. Her brothers depended on her devotion to cherish their mother’s old age, as if she must always forget her own life and feel in vain the tender beating of her young heart.
Marcel gazed at her a long time. With affectionate admiration he regarded her graceful figure, so supple and so full of the promise of future strength; the pure tint of her complexion, accentuated by the black of her dress; her deep, sombre eyes, so sweet withal, the eyes of a woman who has tasted life and knows it, without fearing it; he saw the whole charming picture of a maiden both proud and virtuous. Why should she not inspire love?
He noticed the dark hair overhanging her troubled brow, and sought to make her smile.
“I love that black hair of yours,” he said. “I have never seen any so black. How proudly you carry the weight of it. Do you remember, when you were little and wore it down your back, there was so much of it that the peasant women coming back from market used to stop to look at you and say, ‘What a shame to put a false plait upon the poor child!’ And your nurse was very angry, ‘A false plait, is it! Come and pull it and you’ll see if it comes off in your hands.’ So they actually tested the genuineness of your hair, and you wept because you were too beautiful!”
Slowly, leaning on the iron balustrade and setting each foot in turn on every step, Madame Guibert was coming down to her children. As an autumn flower blooms in a deserted garden, so a feeble smile had lighted up her face since Marcel’s arrival. He came now to meet her and set her chair in a sheltered spot.
“Are you comfortable, Mother?” he asked. The smile on the old face deepened.
“My dear big boy, you are so like him.”
Marcel’s face grew grave. “It is eighteen months now since he passed on,” he said. “I shall never forget that night at Ambato! I wandered round the camp. I called to him. I called to you all. I felt death coming to me....”