"You were too young before."
"And how we have talked! We agree on all points."
The gentle maternal eyes sought those of her child in the twilight of the staircase.
"Oh, all?" she asked.
"Yes, mamma, on all!"
They had arrived at the top of the stairs. She placed her gloved finger on her mouth. She withdrew her arm which she had placed in that of her son. She was at the door of her room, facing M. Philippe Oberlé's room. Jean kissed her, withdrew a little, returned to her, and pressed her once again to his heart silently.
Then he took a few steps down the passage, looked again at this woman dressed in black, and whom mourning suited so well—so simple with her drooping white hands and her erect head, so firm of feature, so gentle in expression.
He murmured gaily:
"Saint Monica Oberlé, pray for us!"
She did not seem to hear him, but she remained, her hand on the door-handle without entering, as long as Jean could see her, Jean, who was going backwards step by step, farther away, into the shadows of the passage.