“Gilberte, the crossing has upset me; I feel I must lie down for a while. Go and sit on the terrace and come back in an hour. Then we will unpack our trunks and go to the post-office.” “Are you expecting a letter?” “Yes.” “From whom?” “How inquisitive you are!” “Oh, mummy, you’re always saying that! But are you sure that it’s not you who are a little--what shall I say--mysterious? You never answer even my simplest questions.” “I shall answer them one day, child, but not before I have to ... not before I have to.” Gilberte saw her mother’s face wrung with such anguish that she was silent and fondly kissed her hand. Mme. Armand went on: “Yes, you are right. I am a little mysterious, very mysterious even; but if you only know how it hurts me to be so! Still, I will answer you this time, dear: the letter I am expecting is from your nurse.” “From my nurse? Then I was brought up in France? But where?” Mme. Armand was silent. Gilberte waited a few moments, then put on her hat and cloak and said: “Go and lie down, mother. You poor dear, you look as you do on your bad days.... There, I’ll leave you in peace.” “You won’t go out, will you, dear?” “Go out? I, who have never left your side? Why, I should be afraid to walk down the street all by myself! I shall be back soon, dearest.” She opened the door and went downstairs. Above the reception-rooms, which occupied a wing consisting of a single floor, to the right of the garden, was a terrace covered with tents and wicker chairs. She sat down there. It was a mild and balmy October day. The wide, deserted beach was bright with sunshine. The sea was very calm and edged with a narrow fringe of foam. An hour passed. “I will go in,” she said, “when that little boat disappears behind the jetty.” The boat disappeared and she rose to her feet. As she went up the stairs, a childish idea came into her head, an idea which she was destined long to remember, together with the smallest details of that terrible minute: “If mother is still asleep,” she thought, “I will blow on her forehead to wake her.” She listened at the door. Not a sound. She laughed roguishly. Then, slowly, cautiously, she opened the door. Mme. Armand lay stretched on the bed. Gilberte went up to her. For some indefinable reason, she forgot her intended joke and simply kissed her mother on the forehead. A cry escaped her lips. Terror-stricken, she flung herself upon her mother, caught her desperately in her arms and fell fainting beside the bed. Mme. Armand was dead. * * * * *