He shook his head:
"I'm afraid not...."
"Yes, yes," she declared, "Marthe loves you very much. And then there are the children to bring you together. Leave it to me.... The same with your father: don't be alarmed.... Everything will smooth down in time between the two of you. Go, my boy.... Write to me often...."
"Won't you kiss me, mother?"
She kissed him on the forehead, a quick, cold kiss that revealed her lingering bitterness.
But, as she was opening the door, she stopped, reflected and said:
"You are going back to Paris, are you not? To your own place?"
"Why do you ask, mother?"
"An idea that came to me, that's all. My head is in such a state, because of your father, that I did not think of it before...."
"What idea? Can you tell me?"