“Poor lady! Why, it is Madame Guibert. What is the matter? A pain? They come on without warning. I won’t have it said that I left you in trouble. Your husband saved this child from typhoid.” She pointed to a little chubby maid who was laughing. Coming nearer, she saw the tears running down the weary face and guessed that it was nothing physical. Out of respect she asked no questions, but continued: “He would not take anything, the good man. He loved the poor, and above all the children of the poor. He was always laughing. My babies were not afraid of him, they would have eaten off his plate. ‘This is what brave men and women are made of,’ he would say. ‘I have some of them at home, you know!’ It is true, Madame Guibert, that we have a lot of them. But it is just the same, having a lot. You love them all the same. At least one wouldn’t like to lose any of them.” By kind words she comforted Madame Guibert, who thought: “My husband saved Alice Dulaurens too. At La Chênaie they did not honor him any the more for that, and they don’t even remember it. The poor forget less quickly.” “Look at me chattering away without helping you,” continued the woman. “Come inside; have a little glass of something, it will do you good. It warms the heart. Come in and rest for a minute.” Madame Guibert got up, taking the hand which the woman held out to her. “Thank you, Fanchon, thank you. I don’t want anything. There, I am all right again, you see. It was only a passing faintness. Your children are lovely. May God keep you, Fanchon! I don’t want to refuse you, but they are waiting for me at home. My daughter is very easily worried.” “I would like to help you, Madame. One of these days I will bring you a dozen fresh eggs. Don’t say no, it will give me so much pleasure! Come along, children. If it had not been for the Doctor there would have been one less. My lot wouldn’t have been complete.” “You are kind, Fanchon. Good-bye.” At last she was able to continue on her way to Le Maupas. She walked slowly, stopping now and then to wipe her damp forehead, sickened at the thought of the news she had to bring. She did not know how long it took to go from Cognin up the hill which crosses the oakwood, but it must have been very long, for she arrived there as the sun was touching Mount Lépine and darting its shafts against the shield of leaves. A hundred times she felt she would never get back. Under the trees, however, she was grateful for the coolness of the shade and home seemed nearer. Like a wounded animal that measures its safety by the distance from its burrow, she made a last effort. Marcel, leaning against the gate, was looking down the road. He saw his poor mother coming painfully up the road, her face crimson, her back bent, a picture of old age. He ran to her and when he came up, she burst into sobs. “My boy, my dear boy!” she gasped. He had to support her, and he asked simply: