There was new puffiness about her face and she seemed to have lost weight; had neglected to re-dye her hair and grey and white strands hung about her ears and over her forehead. Wearing a blue ensemble, she carried a black overcoat and an umbrella--carrying it by its metallic ring. "Orville," she said, and kissed him. "Have you just come? Oh, to have you here? I found a driver to bring Dr. Raoul to see Lena; he’s gone upstairs to examine her. Just let me sit down for a minute ... Jean, dear, how is Lena? Were you upstairs?" Jeannette was afraid to tell her of Lena’s death: she waited beside Mme. Ronde’s chair, glancing at her, glancing at Orville. "I need a cigarette ... I’ll have one before I see her," Mme. Ronde said. "Bring me one, from the box on the table over there by you--like a good boy ... Orville, have you seen Lena?" She was speaking unevenly, scolding herself for being lukewarm. Orville reasoned: she’ll soon know: it doesn’t matter whether I let her go upstairs: maybe it will be easier to find out from the priest. Jeannette drew a chair close to Mme. Ronde’s chair, leaning toward her, she said: "We went upstairs to see her ... she’s dead ... she died before we returned from the depot." For an instant Mme. Ronde doubted Jean; she folded and unfolded her hands, asking herself why she would lie? "I must go upstairs ... I’ll see ... I..." She got up, sat down, folded her raincoat across the back of her chair, and with slow motion movement got up again. "I’ll go upstairs..." It was Christmas and Lena was racing down the stairs, waving a candy cane, shouting "_Joyeux nöel, joyeux nöel_!" Standing motionless Mme. Ronde wept softly, handkerchief to her face, hating the thought of finding her dead, wanting to hope. Jeannette glanced at Orville who was watching his aunt. She put her arm around Mme. Ronde’s waist but she was not willing to accept assistance. "No ... no..." Facing Orville, she asked: "Why did she have to die while I was away?" "The priest was with her." "The priest was with her!" she scoffed. "Who wants to die alone with a strange priest?" She sat down. Did the priest communicate with her: did she speak to him: was there consolation? He was in the room--to prevent people from talking: Bichain had called him in. Precepts: what had they done, had they stopped the war, had they defied Hitler? ... nothing ... nothing, there’s nothing, no god ... wars ... cuckolds ... war ... She wiped her face with a handkerchief, a man’s handkerchief, her husband’s, snatched from an overcoat. Mopping her face reddened it: it was more tragic, the red and the putty surface wrinkling, the eyes sinking in on themselves. Her face shocked Jeannette as they waited, motionless. For Orville there was the distorted tie-in with Rousseau’s world. "Orville, help me, take my arm ... I’m going upstairs, best to go, not wait..."