It was only since he had learnt how transitory it is that he had enjoyed the beauty of nature in its fulness. Young people do not understand the value of existence as they run heedlessly after pleasure, frivolity, distraction and all that hastens, while it hides, the flight of time. It is danger, passion, love’s melancholy, the sight of death; it is the deep sorrows which bring them to a sudden halt before life’s unmasked face, as when at the bottom of a garden path one suddenly comes upon a cold marble statue under the branches. How can he who would ignore the night feel with the same ecstasy as we the glory of the daylight that must go and of the shapes that the darkness must swallow? Jean had reached the zenith of his youth, and was wiser. Another and a deeper sky, another country, sterile and bare, had developed and perfected his understanding. Above all, new and tragic emotions had struck at his heart with a terrible force, like that of the sculptor’s chisel which causes the useless chips to fly from the stone which is to grow into a statue. Inspired by gratitude for the lessons which he had learnt, he connected his full, passionate appreciation of this spring morning with that crimson dawn on which he had seen his friend die. In the death of the leader after victory, in the pierced forehead behind which the brain so lately lived, in the heart now cold which had been the home of love, in the face of all that strength and courage, shattered like a tree in its vigor; in all these things was manifest the frailty of human life, by contrast with which the light of day shines the brighter. With Marcel’s face on the ground before him--beautiful in its serene, grave stillness, in its calm, touching repose, never to be forgotten amid the surrounding scene--he had felt alike the wish to live fully and without fear and the desire to deny the everlasting presence of death. The old gate at Le Maupas was open as of old. Jean went up the chestnut avenue, breathing in the scent of the blossoms. He knew that in a few minutes the tears would flow again, sad but salutary too. At the crunching of the gravel in the courtyard, an old woman who was seated on the steps, working with slow hands in the cool morning air, arose. Her eyes sought the visitor. She saw who it was. “Is that you, Jean? How I have waited for you!” At the first glance, he took in the marks of her sufferings. She was more bent, and her hair was whiter. But he recognized with surprise on her thin face an expression of peace which he had seen before. “Madame Guibert!” he cried. He sped up the steps and, bending forward with his natural grace, kissed her. Madame Guibert vainly tried to keep back her tears and murmured Marcel’s name. “Come in,” she said at last. “We shall be able to speak of him better in the drawing-room.” She led the way with lagging steps. Then she opened a door and called: “Paule! Here is Jean Berlier!”