He saw Paule coming down the steps. She had her hat on and on her face was an expression of new life.
“Oh, Mademoiselle Paule, you have made up your mind?”
“Yes,” she said. “It is so fine, and Marcel is cross when I stay at home.”
She kissed her mother and left for La Chênaie with the two young men, with whose long steps she could hardly keep pace.
The gate of La Chênaie is reached by the uphill road from Chaloux, which rises above the town of Cognin. An avenue of plane-trees leads across the park to the villa, which is spacious and trim and has a view extending as far as the Lake of Bourget, surrounded by mountains which throw their heavy shadows upon its waters. On this side, lawns without a tree, laid out as a tennis court and a croquet green, leave the view unobstructed, while behind the house a wood of venerable oak trees offers shelter in the summer.
The Dulaurenses were noted for making their guests comfortable and for leaving them at liberty to amuse themselves. When Paule arrived with her brother and Jean, they had just finished a game of croquet and a circle was grouped around Isabelle Orlandi, who was talking in a low voice and waving her hands.
“And his name is Landeau,” she was just saying.
“Whose name?” asked Jean, as he joined the group of listeners.
“My fiancé’s.”
And the girl burst into a harsh, discordant laugh—almost a shriek. She gave her hand to the young man.