Jean Berlier and Isabelle, having completed their tour of the villa, came out from behind the shrubbery. The young man took great pleasure in baiting Mademoiselle de Songeon, and the last sentence immediately provoked his intervention. “That is all changed now, Mademoiselle. It is the misfortune of the age. Formerly nobility meant doing nothing, nowadays, it is the result of labor, which is a moral obligation rather than a physical necessity. The world is upside down; it is the bad people who don’t work now.” But the Honorary President of the White Cross of Savoy, of the Bread Club of St. Anthony, and patroness of several workshops, stared at him haughtily and answered somewhat acidly: “Those who have kept pigs on earth will keep them in heaven too.” “Is that from the Gospel?” asked the mocking Jean. Alice meanwhile had remained behind with Paule and Marcel Guibert. Her step was rather weary, and the young man asked her if she were tired. “Here is a bench,” he said. “Do rest awhile.” “No, thank you. I am all right. Let us go in.” There was a touch of the imaginary invalid in her charming smile, as she added: “It is the burden of these long summer days. Don’t you think they are very depressing?” Marcel was astonished. “I have never given it a thought,” he said. “I love the sun as the bringer of life. And I love long days, for they seem to lengthen our time on earth.” Paule was silent and absent-minded, her eyes turned toward the house. She recognised a visitor who was ringing at the big gate. “It is Monsieur de Marthenay,” she said. Alice’s clear eyes clouded over and the color vanished from her cheeks. She sat down on the seat which she had just refused and invited Paule to do the same. “Stay here with me, dear, please.” And turning to Marcel gracefully, she said: “There is no room for you. But I’m sure that you aren’t tired.” “No, indeed,” he replied. Then, after a pause, “Do you know that absurd Arab proverb, ‘It is better to be seated than to stand, better to lie down than to sit, and better to be dead than to lie down?’” “I did not know it, but I like it,” said Alice. A profound depression, as unaccountable as a child’s despair, was visible in her sweet young face. She bent toward the silent Paule. “I envy you, Paule. You are so strong and splendid. I am so weak. If you only knew how weak I am! I have no strength at all.” And with her lovely sad eyes she fixed Marcel as if speaking to him and asking for his help. Why did she pity herself so? And why did she shrink from M. de Marthenay? “At your age,” Marcel said, “how can one disbelieve in happiness?” Instead of these commonplace words he thirsted to give her the comfort of his own strength. And Paule, a prey at this moment to doubt and bitterness, still kept silence in disdainful astonishment at being envied by this friend whose life had been spared so much and who could arrange her fate according to her own will.