In memory he saw again the old lady, worn out and humiliated, coming home from La Chênaie after the refusal, and he thought of the rough way he had received her. Then with the rather haughty grace which lent so much value to his words of love, he said: “My dear Mother, I have sometimes spoken rudely to you.” She drew her hand gently away and stroked his cheek, smiling a sad yet bright smile, which told the whole story of a soul purified by suffering. “Be quiet,” she murmured, brokenly. “I forbid you to blame yourself. Every day I thank God for the children He has given me.” They were silent. Minutes passed, swiftly, irrevocably. The approaching separation drew nearer, and they enjoyed to the full the happiness of their last moments together. Nothing brings two lives closer than having suffered in common. When would they ever be together again as they were now in the golden charm of autumn, facing the fading trees, whose dying beauty could be seen through the window? Of these three souls, two had the presentiment that these hours would never come back. Madame Guibert sought in vain her usual bravery in farewell moments. Marcel was thinking of the solitudes of Africa which sometimes keep those who visit them; but, ashamed of his weakness, he banished with cheery words of hope these dark forebodings which cast shadows over the little country drawing-room. And now Farmer Trélaz came to tell them that the carriage was at the door. The luggage was stowed away in it--a lunch basket not being forgotten for the long journey to Marseilles. It was quite dark before the ancient vehicle started. At Chambéry Paule noticed Madame Dulaurens and her daughter under an arcade. She saw Alice grow deadly pale; but turning to her brother, she was surprised to see him quite unmoved. He seemed indifferent. She felt intuitively, however, that he, too, had seen her. At the station the three had a long wait. They had the little waiting-room to themselves. Madame Guibert never tired of looking at the son who was about to leave her. Suddenly she said: “You are more like your father than any of the others.” “I have not his faith in life,” said Marcel. “I never saw him discouraged. Whenever he failed in anything, he used to lift his head and laugh and say, ‘As long as there’s life there’s hope.’” “Since his death,” said the old lady, “I have lost all my courage.” “He lives again in you, Mother. He still lives for us.” “Through you too. And he is waiting for me.” Marcel kissed her. “No, Mother, you know we need you,” he said. They were no longer alone, and a short time after, at the porter’s call they went out on the platform. There they saw in the darkness the two headlights of the express flash as it sped on towards them. The moment of farewell had come. Never had Madame Guibert shown so much emotion. Again and again she cried, “My son, my dear son,” while she embraced him. He smiled to reassure her. Her last words were a prayer: