The two went up the steps and found Madame Guibert and Paule working by the light of the dying day. The former’s face brightened as the door opened on her son; but the girl’s gaze was fixed on the little flannel she was embroidering for her faraway nephew. “I have come to say good-bye,” said Jean. “Are you not going to wait for your friend? Must you leave so soon?” Madame Guibert asked him, with real regret, for she loved his buoyant youth and his delightful gaiety and did not fail to distinguish between the real Jean and his reputation. She was grateful to him for distracting Marcel better than she knew how or dared to do; for she could only watch like a mourner her son’s heavy grief, half afraid of his gloomy pride. “I sail for Marseilles in three days, Madame. My leave is up three days earlier than Marcel’s.” At last Paule raised her head. Jean, who was staring at her, could read a reproach in her dark eyes. But it is always possible to be dubious about a look. There are quick, fugitive expressions, whose interpretation is mysterious, and we prefer to refuse to understand them if they do not fall in with our views or may cause us uneasiness. This girl with the serious face and well-balanced carriage, whose somewhat severe grace hinted at a reserve of passion, at once attracted and disconcerted Jean. He had looked forward to hearing her speak kindly to him, and her reticence paralysed him. Her approval and regard would have raised and strengthened him, but he knew that to be worthy of it he would have to undertake something great, and to feel great emotions, yet he was afraid of what he inwardly called “living on the heights.” Above all things he avoided thinking about the ambiguous impression which she made upon him. How many lives pass away misunderstood, without a realisation of the secret of those affinities which might have modified them, and of which even the conjectured strength arouses alarm in the majority of mankind. Madame Guibert accompanied the young man as far as the courtyard. At the foot of the steps she said quickly in a low voice, as he stood near her: “Look after _him_ this winter, Jean. I ask you to do this for me.” He glanced gently at the old lady. Her confidence touched him. “I promise you I shall. To me he is like an elder brother.” And turning round he saw and admired on the veranda steps the graceful, clearly-cut silhouette of Paule in her mourning clothes. But she was looking straight ahead of her and the roses of the autumn sky were fading away over the hill....