Paule blushed, against her will, and her new color changed her as a sunbeam changes a raindrop. In her despair she had lost even the pleasure of her beauty, and now it came back to her again with joy. Jean, seeing that they were both diverted for a moment from their sorrows, continued to question them: “It is in Along Bay, near Hanoi, that they have settled, isn’t it?” “They are not there now,” answered Madame Guibert. “They are living on a fine island. But Paule will explain better than I can. I get so confused with all those foreign names.” “Oh, no, Mother, you don’t really,” cried the girl. She went on, quickly: “Étienne has bought up the island of Kébao, opposite the Bay of Along. It belonged to a company that was badly managed and went bankrupt. It contains important mines and its soil is fertile. The mines, the material and the ground were all sold at auction, at a very low price. My brothers manage the mines and the rice-fields, and are making a splendid thing out of some plantations of a tree called Japanese lilac, which is used for building. Their labor is not sufficient for all the work there is to be done. They are looking in vain for help from France. Nobody here wants to go abroad. But still the country is healthy and picturesque, and they feel sure of success.” She had spoken clearly and simply. Jean was delighted. “There is no future in France--I am going out to join them.” “And what about your career?” said Madame Guibert, as he rose to say good-bye. “I am not so passionately fond of it as Marcel was. There is too much wasted time, and forgotten effort.” They went out on the veranda in front of the house, buried under honeysuckle, roses, and clematis, and they leant over the balcony. This morning at the end of May was a feast for the eyes that rested on it. The air was clear and limpid. A bluish haze, sure presage of the continuance of fine weather, softly outlined the dim mountains. Over yonder the little steeple of Saint-Cassin tapered in the shadow of the chestnuts. Nearer, the fields wore that glory of fresh green which is seen only in springtime. The corn rising from the ground quivered in the passing breeze. The trees in the orchards had already shaken off the white and pink snow of their short-lived blossoms, and every branch was smiling with leaf-buds. Two lime-trees in the corner of the courtyard spread their scent abroad and the chestnuts of the avenue illumined the dark mass of their foliage with white candles. From the balcony they could hear the eternal song of new life, and could appreciate the never-failing promise which the fruitful earth makes to toiling man. Before them and around was the youth of the year, the symbol of the duration of life. They gazed and were silent. They were all thinking of Marcel and this too lovely day filled them with sadness.