The second moment of emotion is sometimes more unnerving than the first. Lucienne's eyelids fluttered quickly and became moist. She laughed at the same time, tender words trembling on her red lips.
"Oh," said she, "so much the better. I don't know if it is in your own interest, Jean, but for us, so much the better."
She was really pretty at that moment, leaning towards her brother, vibrating with a joy which was not feigned.
"I thank you," said Madame Oberlé, looking gravely at her husband to try to guess what reason he had obeyed; "I thank you, Joseph; I should not have dared to ask it of you."
"But you see, my dear," answered the manufacturer, bending towards her, "you see, when proposals are reasonable I accept them. Besides, I am so little accustomed to be thanked that for once the word pleases me. Yes; we have just had a decisive conversation. Jean will accompany my buyer to-morrow and visit some of our cuttings in work. I never lose time—you know that."
Madame Oberlé saw the awkward hand of the grandfather stretch towards her. She took the slate which he held and read this line:
"That is the final joy of my life!"
There was no sign of happiness on this face, expressionless as a mask, none, if not perhaps the fixedness with which M. Philippe Oberlé looked at his son, who had given back a child to Alsace and a successor to the family. He was astonished, and he rejoiced. He forgot to eat, and all at the table were like him. The servant also forgot to serve; he was thinking of the importance he would have in announcing in the kitchen and in the village: "M. Jean has decided to take the factory! He will never leave the country again!" For some minutes in the dining-room of grey maple each of the four persons who met there every day had a different dream and passed a secret judgment; each had a vision, which was not divulged, of possible or probable consequences which the event would have relative to him or herself; each felt disturbed at the thought that to-morrow might be quite different from what had been imagined. Something was falling to pieces—habits, plans, a rule accepted or submitted to for years. It was like a disorder, or a defeat mixed with joy at the news.
The youngest of all was the first to regain her freedom of mind. Lucienne said:
"Are we not going to have lunch because Jean lunches with us? My dear, we are just like what we were before you came, not every day, but sometimes—mute beings who think only for themselves. That is quite contrary to the charms of meeting again. We are not going to begin again. Tell me?"