When the mother was able to speak, it was to thank the Almighty. “Paule, my dear Paule, what did I say a few minutes ago? God is good. He might afflict me still more. He gave you to me in my distress to help me. And I refused to bow myself before Him. O God, Thy Will is cruel, and yet may Thy Name be praised!” Finding her courage again she asked to see the fatal telegram. She read it through several times and discussed it with Paule. “He is indeed dead.... But he is living again ... he is with God.” “Yes,” said the girl. “He died a conqueror--He was shot in the forehead.” They were silent. They both saw Marcel’s beautiful forehead covered with blood, that high forehead which was the temple of such proud thoughts. As she lowered her eyes towards Paule Madame Guibert was filled with pity for her. “Go and rest, dear. To-morrow you will need all your strength--to help me.” “Oh, no,” said Paule, “I shall not leave you.” “Then will you pray? Let us pray for him.” And the two women sank on their knees. For a long time they called down divine blessings on their beloved dead. Paule was quite worn out and had to sit down while her mother, sustained by superhuman will, continued to pray. The tears ran down her cheeks; she no longer tried to keep them back. “My God,” she begged, “accept the offering of our sorrow and misery. When You died on the Cross Your Mother was with You. I was not near my son. Give me strength to bear this trial. Not for me, my God, but for the duty which remains for me to fulfil, for my sons, for her, too, whom You have not spared. She is very young to have so much suffering. I am inured to sorrow; but protect her, be merciful....” As she turned towards Paule she saw her pale face, which had fallen back in the low chair. The girl, for all her courage, had fallen asleep in the midst of her tears. Her swollen eyelids were still wet. Madame Guibert rose and went to sit beside her. Raising the dear head tenderly, she placed it on her knees. The beautiful black hair streamed round her peaceful face and accentuated its whiteness. Thus the tired girl rested, watched over by her mother. The latter gazed fixedly at these motionless features, but saw them not. She saw her son down there outstretched upon the sand, his forehead pierced. He seemed even taller than he had been in the pride of life. Softly she called to him in a low voice: “My son, my darling son! Now you are at rest. You have been a good son and a brave man. There was nothing in your heart that was not noble. You can see us, can you not? You see us trembling and broken. Protect us from on high, protect Paule. I am already on my way to the grave, to join you and your father. The earth is waiting for me--I feel it, and you are calling me. I shall soon be with you for ever.” And as she thought of her own death she uttered this cry in her heart: “Oh, my God, who will be left to close my eyes if thus Thou takest them all away from me?”