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?" She began to laugh, as if from henceforward misunderstandings had disappeared. She joked wittily about silent meals, about the parties at Alsheim that finished at nine o'clock, the rare visits, and the importance of an invitation received from Strasburg. And everybody tacitly encouraged her to speak ill of the past, abolished by the resolution of this man, thoroughly happy, master of himself, who was watching and studying his sister with astonished admiration. "Now," she said, "all is going to change. From now to October we shall be five instead of four under the roof of Alsheim. Then you will do your service; but that only lasts a year--and besides, you will have leave?" "Every Sunday." "You will sleep here?" asked Madame Oberlé. "I should think so--on Saturday nights." "And a nice uniform. Do you know," continued Lucienne, "that Attila tunic, cornflower colour, braided with yellow, black boots; but above all I like the full dress sealskin busby, with its plume of black-and-white horsehair--and the white frogs. It is one of the handsomest uniforms in our army." "Yes, one of the handsomest in the German army," Madame Oberlé hastened to correct, wishing to make amends for the unlucky words of her daughter, for the grandfather had made a gesture with his hand as if to rub out something from the cloth. M. Joseph Oberlé added, laughing: