“May God bless you and keep you!” All bent and bowed to the earth which was drawing her towards it, she went back on Paule’s arm to Trélaz’s carriage. “Don’t be unhappy, Mother dear,” said Paule, comforting her. “It is only for a year. You used to be so much braver.” All the time she herself was in torture because of the secret that had been entrusted to her. On the way home they were silent. During the evening at Le Maupas Madame Guibert suddenly burst into tears. “I am so afraid I shall never see him again,” she murmured, when she could give voice to her grief. “But he is running no risks,” Paule assured her, surprised and alarmed at this strange presentiment of a danger of which she alone was aware. “I don’t know. I am as sad as I was the year your father died.” With a great effort she managed to control herself so as not to frighten her daughter. Then, taking the hand of her last child with that gracious gentleness which remained to her from her youth, she said to Paule, thinking of the many separations in the past, some for a long time and others for ever: “Dear little girl, you are the last flower of my deserted garden.” PART II CHAPTER I THIRTEEN AT TABLE “We might perhaps go in to dinner,” M. Dulaurens timidly ventured to suggest. Upon the look which his wife threw at him he left the immediate neighborhood of the fireplace, where some enormous oak-logs were burning, and modestly seated himself at the side. Turning to her guests, Madame Dulaurens smiled and showed them a calendar with the date February 25th inscribed thereon in huge letters. Mademoiselle de Songeon, old and dried-up, drew nearer and seemed to take a special interest in the flight of time. In reality her only thought was to get possession of the corner near the fire. She had just come back from Rome. In winter she paid attention only to the southern shrines; and to accomplish this last pilgrimage she had had to seize hastily the cattle of a farmer whose rent was in arrears. While warming her large feet she considered the calendar. “But it says the twenty-fifth of February, 1898!” she exclaimed after reading it, “and we are now at the twenty-fifth of February, 1901. You are exactly three years behind the time!” All the ladies except Alice got up to confirm this. The calendar was passed from hand to hand. Madame Orlandi, who was holding Pistache to her heart--an old, fat, bald Pistache, whose heavy eyelids fell over bleary eyes--cried out astonished and proud of her own penetration. “Oh, _I_ know! You have kept it at the date of your daughter’s wedding. To-day is the third anniversary. How clever and delicate your motherly love is! You are _so_ sympathetic, dear Madame Dulaurens. I too love to keep souvenirs.” “I’ll wager you don’t remember the date of my wedding, Mamma,” said Isabelle, now Madame Landeau.