“Mademoiselle Guibert, I have come to ... to ... tell you ...” In his face, as the lamp shone on it, she read so much confusion and trouble that she gave way to her darkest presentiments. With a few quick words she aroused the poor, frightened man from his stupor. “Speak, oh, do speak! Has there been an accident? My mother ... on the road....” She could not finish the sentence. “No,” said the man, “I did not meet the lady.” And he relapsed into silence. “Well, why did you come? If you have anything to say, say it. Do be quick!” Straight and proud, she spoke in the commanding voice which she knew how to take upon occasion, like Marcel. The stiffness of her bearing quite confused the policeman, who drew the telegram from his pocket and with his big trembling hand held it out to the girl. He tried to take it back again, but the blue paper was already in Paule’s hand. Before she had even opened it, she thought of her brother. She glanced over it, said “Ah,” crushed up the telegram, and turned deadly pale. But with a supreme effort she remained standing and did not cry. She could not show her weakness to this man, whom she thought unfeeling, but she had to lean on the table. This movement and her pallor were her only admissions of weakness. A fearful silence enveloped them. At last she was able to say without trembling: “It is all right. You may go. I thank you.” As he was stepping out she remembered the laws of rural hospitality and added: “Tell Marie to give you something to drink, please.” But the policeman rushed through the kitchen and fled as if he had murdered someone.