They talked for an hour, or rather the uncle talked in monologue, and tried to console Jean, who had let him see his grief, and had wept bitterly.
"Weep, my dear boy," said the uncle. "At this moment your mother is assisting at the first interview between Lucienne and the other. I confess I do not understand her. Weep, but don't let yourself be cast down. To-morrow you must be brave. Think, in three weeks you will be in the barracks. They must not see you crying. Well, the year will soon pass, and you will come back to us—and who knows?"
Jean passed his hand over his eyes and said resolutely:
"No, uncle."
"Why not?"
At the same place where in the preceding winter the two men had talked so joyously of the future, they were once more seated at the two ends of the sofa.
Outside, daylight was fading away and the air was warm. M. Ulrich found suddenly on Jean's sorrowful face the energetic expression which had so forcibly struck him on the former occasion, and had so delighted him. The Vosges-coloured eyes, with brows close together, were full of changing gleams of light, and yet the eyes were steady.
"No," said Jean; "it is necessary that you should know—you and one other to whom I will tell it. I shall not do my military service here."
"Where will you do it?"
"In France."