Jeannette shook her head. "No tears," he said. At that she gave him a special smile: her girlishness struck him, made him shiver, made him wonder how long it could last. To hide his consternation he said: "Are you coming along with me?" "Of course I am." "Our car’s parked at the rear of the depot," Claude said. "How are you?" The question came with a genuine sense of concern. Orville simply nodded. The bearded face seemed unchanged. Sitting in the car, Jeannette kissed Orville consolingly, understanding his fatigue, ruling out his greasy mechanic’s uniform, his unshaven face, peasant cap: as they drove the short distance to the Ronde’s, he said very little, but he did admit it had been "a rotten trip ... I tried phoning you from Paris, but I couldn’t get through" ... it was easier to sit and stare at the village, at things he knew; Jean guessed the state of his mind. He asked about Lena again. "She’s very ill." "Is she in the hospital?" "She’s at home--there’s no room at the hospital." "What really happened to her? The radiograms didn’t help me much." "Overwork ... no, not that ... she took crazy chances ... on a parachute drop she ... well, it was exposure ... those Maquis ventures ... then she contracted pneumonia." Orville realized from her jerky phrases that she was disturbed. "Aunt Therèse ... how’s she?" "Not so well." "Her telegram said..." "You’re safe ... you’re here ... a few days ... we have you for a few days ... you and I." She kissed his hand. "There will be time for you ... to rest. Let’s be glad we have each other." He held her against him. Rain and windshield wipers and thoughts mixed. Going to Lena’s room, glad of the family house, he felt dirtier than ever, perhaps he could have changed, somehow, somewhere: it was Claude who urged him to see Lena at once--no, don’t wait to change. Orville respected Colonel Ronde for manipulating this brief leave: would he be arriving in E soon? Walking through the living room, Orville was comforted by the rose grey of the carpet, the oval mirror, the bust of Chopin, the piano. Ascending the staircase he heard the downpour hit the roof. Home ... yes ... A priest confronted him at Lena’s door and shook hands, saying nothing. Orville went in: her room smelled of medicines; her oxygen tank reared up alongside her bed; its red plastic handle grinned; her plasma bottle hung on its chromium hook--and nodded. Lena’s face was deep in the pillow. "She’s dead," the priest said in an unemotional voice. "She died about a half hour ago ... she was unconscious, then the end." Then the end, Orville repeated to himself. If my train had been on time? he asked himself. He stared at the priest accusingly, rudely: had he done anything to help Lena? His fat bearded face was noncommittal. The man’s eyes were as dead Lena’s: such apathy. Orville stepped back, stepped aside in disgust.