Madame Guibert slept in the next room. She opened the door gently so as not to awaken her daughter, and yet to be able to hear her in the night if she were not well. Then, as she did every night before undressing, she knelt on her prie-Dieu and said her prayers. As she did every night, she gathered together her dear dead ones and the lying scattered all over the world to beg for them God’s loving care. More particularly she prayed over Paule’s uncertain future and Marcel’s sorrow-stricken heart. A slight deafness and the absorption of her thoughts cut her off from all around her. When she was in bed, she seemed to hear a faint sigh. She listened in vain and reassured herself. “Paule is asleep,” she thought. “She was pale this evening. Dear little girl. May God keep her and give her happiness! ... Old Marie must have taken cold as well. She had such red eyes and shaking hands. I told her to drink some tea to-night with a little rum in it. It is the rum she likes best!” Suddenly she sat up. This time she was not mistaken. That stifled sob came from Paule’s bedroom. And listening attentively she made out at last the sound of weeping and despair. Her bosom wrung with a horrible fear, she got out of bed. She was no longer uneasy about her daughter’s health. She understood now this sadness that had made itself felt at Le Maupas all the evening. A calamity had come upon the home, a calamity that they all knew about except herself, something that was terrible, since they had kept it from her. She guessed at the dim and dread presence of her old acquaintance, Death. Whom had it claimed from her now, whom had it struck? ... While she was walking bare-footed, feeling her way in the darkness, she counted the absent ones--Marguerite, Étienne, François, Marcel. Marcel--it was Marcel! She passed through the half-open door, touched Paule’s bed, and bending towards her she called: “Paule, tell me, what is the matter?” She dared ask no more. The girl, suddenly roused in a paroxysm of sorrow, gave a cry of distress which told her secret: “Mamma!” “It is Marcel, is it not?” said Madame Guibert breathlessly. “You have bad news about Marcel!” “Mother, Mother,” murmured Paule. “He is ill, very ill?” “Yes, Mother dear, he is ill.” And Paule, half raising herself in bed, put her arms round her mother’s neck. Gently but firmly Madame Guibert pushed her away. “He is dead?” “Oh!” cried the girl. “Wait till to-morrow, Mother. We shall have news. Be strong, Mother. We don’t know.” “You have had something, a letter, a telegram. Show them to me. I must see them.” “Mother dearest, do not torture yourself so,” entreated Paule in broken tones which were in themselves an admission.