She made no reply. She was so pale that it seemed as if the blood had left her veins. He took her hand, which she did not withdraw. He waited, confident and calm, his heart swelling with hope. She gazed at the peaceful countryside unseeingly. The summits of Mount Revard ceased to reflect the sunset glow. All nature was wrapped in the shadow which precedes sleep. Was not this the happiness that Marcel had predicted for her, on this very spot, during a similar sunset? As she continued silent, Jean was racked with intolerable anguish. In an altered voice he repeated for the third time. “Paule, I love you. Why do you not speak? Answer me, I beg you.” Gently the girl released her hand. “No, no, I cannot,” she said. Sobs choked her voice, and she fled towards the house. Then he felt the night fall even upon his heart. He hated the life he had once adored and envied Marcel dead on the African sands, Marcel wrapped in infinite peace. CHAPTER VIII MADAME GUIBERT On the veranda Madame Guibert was waiting for the return of “her children.” Her arms were crossed on the iron balustrade; hidden in one of her hands she held a rosary, the beads of which she told while her lips murmured the _Ave Maria_. A peace as deep as that which had fallen over the land now reigned over her tear-stained face. She saw Paule come back sobbing distractedly and tried in vain to stop her. “Paule, what is the matter? Tell me,” she called. But the girl passed her without a word and fled to her room. Madame Guibert turned to follow her. Then she changed her mind, threw a shawl round her shoulders, and descended the steps. With trembling feet, summoning all her strength, she went up the avenue and posted herself near the open gate which looked on to the road. “He cannot have passed yet,” she thought. “Paule came back so quickly.” By the light of the setting sun she scanned the deserted road. All round her she heard nothing but the never-ceasing, strident sound of the crickets and the occasional flutter of a heavy chestnut-leaf blown down by the wind. After a few minutes of suspense, she saw the young man’s shadow on the path which skirts the Montcharvin meadows. He walked along with his head bowed, and his body stooping listlessly. As he came nearer she read easily the expression of sadness in his face. So absorbed was he in his sorrow that he did not notice her standing to his right beside the stone column. As he passed her, she called to him: “Jean!” Surprised to hear his own name he turned round and saw the old lady smiling sweetly at him. He took off his hat and came up to her. “I am so unhappy,” he said simply, as if he were telling his troubles to his own mother. Madame Guibert held out her hand to him. “Jean, give me your arm. Let us go in, night is coming on and it is getting cold.”