“Say rather in being president and making trips,” suggested Jean. “She has a love of wandering about and of ruling over others. She gives her orders and keeps on the move, and pretends to be religiously employed when in reality she uses religion as a means of gratifying her twofold passion. The story goes that she extorts money from her debtors like a Jew so that she may pay her duties to God in the most fashionable sanctuaries.” Madame Guibert tried to stop him. “My dear Jean,” she cried, “what are you talking about? You will make us believe that you are very unkind.” “It is only unkind gossip,” said the young man. “Forgive me, I spoke too freely, as I should to my family if I had one.” And hastening to cover the regret he expressed in his last words, he added: “Here I feel happy. I came here as a little child. But please don’t talk to me of Mademoiselle de Songeon. A saint, indeed, is she? Oh, no! Now you, Madame Guibert, _are_ one.” Madame Guibert, in spite of her age, could never hear herself praised without blushing. Her courage was only of the inward kind. She protested: “Jean, what are you saying? God has spoilt me. That’s all.” The young man looked with surprise at this elderly woman in mourning, her face withered with sorrow, her eyes constantly filled with tears, who, nevertheless, could thank God for her trials. She noticed his expression. “Yes, God overwhelmed me with blessings before taking them from me. And now, if I tremble for my children scattered all over the world, for _him_--” she pointed to Marcel--“who has been through so many dangers, how can I help being proud of their courage and their work? Is not their life my life?” Jean was moved; he rose and took Madame Guibert’s hand, and kissed it respectfully. “You are a saint, I told you you were. When I see you I grow better and I no longer want to scatter my life to the four winds, I want to imitate your sons. But I have no mother.” He saw Paule coming down the steps. She had her hat on and on her face was an expression of new life. “Oh, Mademoiselle Paule, you have made up your mind?” “Yes,” she said. “It is so fine, and Marcel is cross when I stay at home.” She kissed her mother and left for La Chênaie with the two young men, with whose long steps she could hardly keep pace. The gate of La Chênaie is reached by the uphill road from Chaloux, which rises above the town of Cognin. An avenue of plane-trees leads across the park to the villa, which is spacious and trim and has a view extending as far as the Lake of Bourget, surrounded by mountains which throw their heavy shadows upon its waters. On this side, lawns without a tree, laid out as a tennis court and a croquet green, leave the view unobstructed, while behind the house a wood of venerable oak trees offers shelter in the summer.