“My dear Jean,” she cried, “what are you talking about? You will make us believe that you are very unkind.”
“It is only unkind gossip,” said the young man. “Forgive me, I spoke too freely, as I should to my family if I had one.”
And hastening to cover the regret he expressed in his last words, he added:
“Here I feel happy. I came here as a little child. But please don’t talk to me of Mademoiselle de Songeon. A saint, indeed, is she? Oh, no! Now you, Madame Guibert, are one.”
Madame Guibert, in spite of her age, could never hear herself praised without blushing. Her courage was only of the inward kind. She protested:
“Jean, what are you saying? God has spoilt me. That’s all.”
The young man looked with surprise at this elderly woman in mourning, her face withered with sorrow, her eyes constantly filled with tears, who, nevertheless, could thank God for her trials. She noticed his expression.
“Yes, God overwhelmed me with blessings before taking them from me. And now, if I tremble for my children scattered all over the world, for him—” she pointed to Marcel—“who has been through so many dangers, how can I help being proud of their courage and their work? Is not their life my life?”
Jean was moved; he rose and took Madame Guibert’s hand, and kissed it respectfully.
“You are a saint, I told you you were. When I see you I grow better and I no longer want to scatter my life to the four winds, I want to imitate your sons. But I have no mother.”