The two women went towards the window. Madame Oberlé wore the same black dress she had put on to receive the Prefect of Strasburg. Lucienne had put on a large brimmed hat of grey straw, trimmed with feathers of the same shade, as if to cover her fair hair with a veil of shadow. Her mother thought her beautiful--and did not say so. She would have hastened to say so if the betrothed had not been he whom they expected, and if the sight of the house, and the memory of the good Alsatian folk who had lived in it, had not made the pain she already felt greater. She leant against the windows and looked down into the garden full of box-trees clipped into rounded shapes, and flower borders outlined by box, and the winding, narrow paths where she had played, grown up, and dreamed. Beyond the garden there was a walk made on the town ramparts, and between the chestnuts planted there one could see the blue plain. Lucienne, who had not spoken since the arrival at Obernai, guessing that she would have disturbed a being who was asking herself whether she could continue and complete her sacrifice, came quite close to her mother, and with that intelligence which always took everyone's fancy the first time they heard it, but less the second time: "You must suffer, mamma," she said. "With your ideas, what you are doing is almost heroic!" The mother did not look up, but her eyelids fluttered more, and quickly. "You are doing it as a wifely duty, and because of that I admire you. I do not believe I could do what you are doing--give up my individuality to such an extent." She did not think she was being cruel. "And you wish to be married?" asked the mother, raising her head quickly. "Why, yes; but we do not now look upon marriage quite as you do." The mother saw from Lucienne's smile that she would be contending with a fixed idea, and she felt that the hour for discussion was badly chosen. She kept silence. "I am grateful to you," continued the young girl. Then after a moment of hesitation: "Nevertheless, you had another reason besides obeying my father when you agreed to come here--here to receive M. von Farnow." She let her eyes wander round the room, and brought them back to the woman with smooth hair--that worn-out and suffering woman--who was her mother. There was no hesitation. "Yes," she said. "I was sure of it. Can you tell me what it is?" "Presently." "Before M. von Farnow?" "Yes." Keen annoyance changed the expression of Lucienne's face; it grew hard. "Although we do not agree with each other very well, surely you are not capable of trying to turn my betrothed against me?" Tears appeared in the corners of Madame Oberlé's eyelids. "Oh Lucienne!" "No, I do not believe it. It is something important?" "Yes." "Does it concern me?" "No; not you."