"You mustn't! I only ask for a movement, a kind word.... I am passing through a terrible time, I need help and you ... you repel me.... It's you who are repelling me, don't forget that.... It's you...."
"That's understood," said Marthe. "I am a cruel friend.... Only, you see, my dear little Suzanne, if the thought of your marriage upsets you to that extent, it might be a good plan to tell your father.... Come, come along downstairs and calm yourself."
They found Mme. Morestal below, feather-broom in hand, an apron tied round her waist, waging her daily battle against a dust that existed only in her imagination.
"I suppose you know, mamma, that Philippe is not yet up?"
"The lazy fellow! It's nearly nine o'clock. I hope he's not ill!"
"Oh, no!" said Marthe. "But, all the same, when I go up again, I'll look in and see."
Mme. Morestal went as far as the hall with the two young women. Suzanne was already walking away, without a word, with the face which she wore on her black days, as Marthe said, when Mme. Morestal called her back:
"You're forgetting your stick, child."
The old lady had taken the long, iron-shod walking-stick from the umbrella-stand. But, suddenly, she began to rummage among the canes and sunshades, muttering:
"Well, that's funny...."