“Why did you not keep the carriage? You are tired. You are hot, Mother dear, it is not wise of you. Lean on my arm. We will go slowly.” He helped her till she was seated in the drawing-room, wrapped in a shawl that Paule brought. Not another word had been spoken, and already everything had been told. With lowering brows and hard eyes Marcel was silent. He had understood at the first look, and although the blow was unexpected he was too proud to complain. He asked for no explanation. His mother wiped her face, on which tears and perspiration were mingled. Trembling she murmured:-- “Don’t regret anything. It is not worth while.” “Why?” asked Paule surprised. “They don’t want to separate themselves from their daughter. They think they love her all the more because of that.” “And Alice?” asked Marcel’s sister. “I did not see her. She is hiding. Or they are hiding her. Her parents had not been told about my visit. They were astonished. You would have had to promise them to stay at Chambéry, to resign, if necessary. I understood that a Marthenay would suit them better.” Marcel’s eyes flashed, but all he said was “Oh!” Madame Guibert began to tell about the humiliating way she had been questioned. But, made ungrateful by the pain which he felt and refused to admit, Marcel did not leave her time to do so. “You did not understand how to talk to them! I’m sure of that. You don’t like them and you let them see it. You hate society and you ignore it.” He had assumed his disdainful, haughty manner. Pride had opened the wound. The mother answered softly, but with deep sadness in her voice: “Your father never reproached me for that. However, I deserve it, I daresay. But I am too old to change, and these people treated me without consideration.” Marcel, sullen and ashamed of himself, went out without saying anything to lessen the harshness of his words. Paule during this scene had stood motionless and very pale. Now she threw herself into her mother’s arms and kissed her passionately: “Mother, don’t cry. Oh, how I despise them! And Marcel is so unjust. It was hateful what he said just now!” Her eyes shone with sombre fire. Madame Guibert kept back her tears and said: “No, Paule, you must not despise anyone. And be patient with your brother. Don’t you see that he is suffering? Go look for him.” CHAPTER VIII THE CONSPIRATORS In the garden at Le Maupas, where the roses were fading in the shadow of the yellowing chestnut boughs, Marcel and Jean Berlier were poring over a map of Africa spread out on the slate table. “Here is the road we must take,” said the Captain, and he showed a series of little red crosses marked out on the Sahara desert. With boyish enthusiasm Jean asked: “Then the expedition is really decided on this time?”