He gave her his arm, answering in dull accents: “Madame Guibert, you know that I must not come in any more. But I will take you back as far as the door.” The golden splashes of twilight sought to blend with the thick trunks of the chestnuts. Daylight was fighting obstinately with darkness. Slowly and silently the pair walked over the gravel of the avenue. At the foot of the steps, as he was going to bid her good-bye she said: “Come in with me. I want to talk to you. Paule is not in the drawing-room.” He tried to resist, then gave way indifferently and followed Madame Guibert. He was like a condemned man, who does not believe in the chaplain’s consolations and yet listens to him. When he had shut the door she turned to him and taking his two hands looked at him steadily with her clear eyes. “She has refused to be your wife?” “She ran away in tears.” “Jean, my dear Jean, you did not understand.” Her affectionate words soothed his pain, but also had the effect of softening his resolution, and he was ready to burst into tears. “I am sure she does not love me,” he said. “I love her _so_ much.” She let go his hands and leaned against the table, seeming to collect her thoughts. What she was making up her mind to say was so serious. Could she answer for her daughter’s heart? Was she indeed sure that she herself quite understood? She looked at the young man whom she wished to have for her son, and remembered how loyal and brave he had been in the past. Above all she thought of Paule’s loving nature and her life in the days to come. Reassured, she smiled at Jean and spoke at last. “You are quite wrong, Jean. Paule loves you.” He shook his head. “Oh, no, Madame, do not trouble yourself to find explanations. Let me go away.” “Do you think mothers can no longer guess their daughter’s secrets?” She paused and then spoke out her thoughts. “Paule loves you. Did you not understand that she was sacrificing herself for me?” “For you?” he repeated. “How so?” He looked attentively at Madame Guibert. His youth rebelled at the thought of defeat and already he was full of a new hope. Still she was not surprised that he had not guessed her meaning. She answered almost apologetically: “Did you not tell her that you were leaving for Tonkin?” “Yes, I did.” “She did not want to go away from me, Jean. And that is why she left you in tears. But she loves you. Did not her tears tell you that?” At last his own selfishness was clear to him, and he stood stupidly before the woman whose existence he had forgotten. He had been preparing to leave her in loneliness and yet a few minutes ago she had said nothing when he had asked her for the gift of her last child. Madame Guibert repeated, as he maintained his silence: “She did not wish to leave me all alone.” And with a faint smile she added, “Does that surprise you, Jean?” He was still silent, trying to master the feeling that was overwhelming him. The old lady went on in her gentle, resolute voice: