They form a vast circle around Chambéry, and their rocky heights were tinged with a gorgeous pink, while around their base and sides floated, like a delicate veil, that bluish haze which is the forerunner of fine morrows. But Madame Guibert’s anxiety was too keen to allow her to contemplate the reflection of the setting sun on the summits of the hills. Suddenly she revealed the cause of her preoccupation: “Suppose the train is ahead of time!” And although she had spoken earnestly, she was the first to smile at her own supposition. At last her eyes noted a soft transparent shadow climbing the mountains, and leaving the cross of Le Nivolet bathed in radiant light for an instant she called her daughter’s attention to this symbol, a token of shining faith. Then the same serene peace fell on all nature and, for the first time in long months, on the faces of the two sad women. As they neared Chambéry, a break drawn by two fast-trotting horses, passed Trélaz’s old coach. “It is the Dulaurens’s carriage,” said Paule. “They are going to Aix. They did not bow to us.” “I don’t suppose they recognised us.” “Oh, yes, they did. But since we gave up our fortune to save uncle people do not bow to us as they used to.” She alluded to a family misfortune which had occurred shortly before her father’s death. Madame Guibert took her daughter’s hand: “But that is nothing, dear. Just think, in a few minutes we shall see Marcel.” After a short silence Paule asked: “Wasn’t it father who attended and cured Alice Dulaurens, during that epidemic of typhoid fever at Cognin which finally carried him off?” “Yes,” murmured the old woman, depressed at this recollection. And it was she who continued softly and uncomplainingly: “And they even forgot to settle the bill for attendance. That is often the way with rich people. They don’t know what it means for others to live.” “The reason is because they understand only how to amuse themselves.” Madame Guibert saw a wave of bitterness cross her daughter’s face, whose every expression she knew. “We must not envy them,” she said. “In amusing themselves, they forget life. They do not know what fills our hearts. I shall soon be sixty years old. Count my sacrifices and the dear ones I have lost. I am separated from my daughter Thérèse and from my husband, who was my strength. Your eldest sister, Marguerite, is a nun, and I have not seen her for five years. Étienne and François are in Tonkin, and I do not know my grandson who has just been born out there. Marcel is coming back after three years of absence and terrible anxiety. Still my lot has been fortunate. I bless God, who tried me after having crowned me with blessings. Every day I have experienced His goodness. Even in my misery He gave me a support in you.” With her little ungloved hand Paule pressed her mother’s, cracked and wrinkled. “Yes, Mother, you are right, I shall complain no more.”