Madeleine stood still, with one hand holding up her apron, the other hanging, and gazed at me with reproachful anxiety. “I must come in, Madeleine. I have a secret to tell you.” She made no answer, but turned and walked before me into the house. It was not thus that I used to be welcomed in days gone by! Then Madeleine used to meet me at the station. She used to kiss me, and tell me how well I looked, promising the while a myriad sweet dishes which she had invented for me. Hardly did I set foot in the hall before my uncle, who had given up his evening walk for my sake, would run out of his study, heart and cravat alike out of their usual order at seeing me--me, a poor, awkward, gaping schoolboy: Today that is ancient history. To-day I am afraid to meet my uncle, and Madeleine is afraid to let me in. She told me not a word of it, but I easily guessed that floods of tears had streamed from her black eyes down her thin cheeks, now pale as wax. Her face is quite transparent, and looks as if a tiny lamp were lighting it from within. There are strong feelings, too, beneath that impassive mask. Madeleine comes from Bayonne, and has Spanish blood in her. I have heard that she was lovely as a girl of twenty. With age her features have grown austere. She looks like a widow who is a widow indeed, and her heart is that of a grandmother. She glided before me in her slippers to that realm of peace and silence, her kitchen. I followed her in. Two things that never found entrance there are dust and noise. A lonely goldfinch hangs in a wicker cage from the rafters, and utters from time to time a little shrill call. His note and the metallic tick-tick of Madeleine’s clock alone enliven the silent flight of time. She sat down in the low chair where she knits after dinner. “Madeleine, I am about to be married; did you know it?” She slowly shook her head. “Yes, in Paris, Monsieur Fabien; that’s what makes the master so unhappy.” “You will soon see her whom I have chosen, Madeleine.” “I do not think so, Monsieur Fabien.” “Yes, yes, you will; and you will see that it is my uncle who is in the wrong.” “I have not often known him in the wrong.” “That has nothing to do with it. My marriage is fully decided upon, and all I want is to get my uncle’s consent to it. Do you understand? I want to make friends with him.” Madeleine shook her head again. “You won’t succeed.” “My dear Madeleine!” “No, Monsieur Fabien, you won’t succeed.” “He must be very much changed, then!”