"Oh, of course, your room is on the other side. The sound came from the frontier.... Some poacher, I suppose...."
"Were M. Morestal and Philippe in?"
"Surely! It must have been one or two o'clock ... perhaps later ... I don't quite know."
She put the tea-pot and the jar of honey, which Marthe had had for breakfast, on the tray; and, with her mania for tidying, obeying some mysterious principle of symmetry, settled her daughter-in-law's things and any piece of furniture in the room that had been moved from its place. This done, with her hands hanging before her, she looked round for an excuse to discontinue this irksome activity. Then, discovering none, she left the room.
"How early you are," said Marthe to Suzanne.
"I wanted air ... and movement.... Besides, I told Philippe that I would come and fetch him. I want to go and see the ruins of the Petite-Chartreuse with him ... It's a bore that he's not up yet."
She seemed disappointed at this accident which deprived her of a pleasure.
"Do you mind if I finish my letters?" asked Marthe, taking up her pen.
Suzanne strolled round the room, looking out of the window, leant to see if Philippe's was open, then sat down opposite Marthe and examined her long and carefully. She noted the eye-lids, which were a little rumpled; the uneven colouring; the tiny wrinkles on the temples; a few white hairs mingling with the dark tresses; all that proclaims time's little victories over waning youth. And, raising her eyes, she saw herself in a glass.