And for two years now, she had been alone, quite alone, and would be alone to her last day.
In obedience to Yves, Marie had come yesterday, after two days' journeying, and knocked at this door with her child. An old, hard-featured woman, whom she recognized at once without ever having seen her, had opened to her.
"I am Marie, Yves' wife. . . . How do you do, mother?"
"Yves' wife! Yves' wife! So this then is little Pierre? This is my little grandson?"
Her eye had softened as she looked at the little grandson. She had made them enter, given them to eat, seen that they were warm and comfortable, and prepared for them her best bed. But for all that there was a coldness, an ice which nothing could thaw.
In the corner, surreptitiously, the grandmother embraced her grandchild with affection. But before Marie she gave no sign and remained always stiff and hard.
Now and then they spoke of Yves, and Marie said timidly that, since their marriage, he had reformed greatly.
"Tra la la! . . . Reformed!" repeated the old woman, assuming her ill-tempered air. "Tra la la! my child! . . . Reformed! . . . He has his father's head, they are all the same, they are all alike, and you have not seen the last of it in him; mark my words!"
Then poor Marie, her heart heavy, not knowing what to reply, nor what else to say during the long day, nor what to do with herself, waited impatiently for the time fixed by Yves for their departure. Very surely she would not return.