“Alice is hesitating by nature,” she continued. “She is still so young--a mere child! There were other offers before yours. This is a confidence, of course. They have this advantage that they would not take our daughter from us. It is a great point in Alice’s eyes. Nobility, fortune, all are there. If the Captain would only consent not to leave Chambéry, to resign when necessary, to live near us, near you too! Is he not surfeited with fame?” Madame Guibert got up and said simply. “I do not know, Madame. I thank you.” She thanked her enemy for having tormented her needlessly! Never had she felt so weak and so helpless. Madame Dulaurens, as she went to the door with her, felt sorry for her and, satisfied with her victory, overwhelmed her with congratulations on her health, on her children who had formed a little France out in Tonkin, on Paule who was so beautiful and distinguished, who did not come often enough to see Alice. She was going to keep her daughter, so she could afford to be generous. On the doorstep she seemed to be parting with her best friend with the best grace in the world. Behind her trotted M. Dulaurens, bowing like a little automaton. Left alone again, Madame Guibert went down the long plane avenue. She breathed freely, as if she had just escaped a great danger. That woman had been unkind and hard to her. How instinctively she had known what would wound her pride and delicacy of feeling. How she had fastened upon her brother-in-law’s misfortune, which had made so great a demand upon Dr. Guibert’s strength of will and presence of mind and which had brought about the financial ruin of the family; upon the weariness of that colonial expedition, over which Marcel’s splendid health had triumphed. What a sinister interpretation she had put on these events which were her glory! And yet she herself had brought the olive-branch and had spoken gently. Life, her life of humble, daily devotion, had not taught her that maternal love contracts the heart more often than it widens it, otherwise she would have understood that it was this warped feeling which had made Madame Dulaurens defend in every way her threatened happiness, the happiness which she mistook in all good faith for that of her daughter. But solitude was not long much comfort to her. Must she not go back to Le Maupas to tell her son the sad news? The thought of the pain which she could not spare him, of which she brought the tidings, brought to her eyes the tears which she had so long tried to keep back. The sun’s rays crossed the tops of the thick trees, as slowly wended his course towards the mountain. For the first time in her life it hurt her to return to her old home, where she knew they were awaiting her confidently and impatiently.