Every one knew that this last son was her Benjamin, petted more than all her other children. Her present anxiety was for her daughters; she would fain have married them at once. "Marry them!" cried Odette; "but to whom, at such a time as this?" "To good young soldiers, that they may soon have children." Not the slightest emotion, though the family was truly affectionate; one single idea--to come to the defense of the country, by whatever means. Odette could not but admire, though at the same time she trembled. "How far advanced is your mourning?" asked Mme. de Blauve almost severely. "What?" asked Odette. "I mean, how long is it since you lost you dear husband?" "Just eighteen months," replied Odette. "You are young," said Mme. de Blauve; "my child, you still have duties to perform." "But," said Odette, bewildered, "I am doing what I can." "We will speak again of it in a few months," said Mme. de Blauve. "I shall not lose sight of you. I count you among the _good_ ones." She dwelt upon the word "good" as she bade Odette good-by. Odette did not in the least grasp Mme. de Blauve's meaning. Did she find her "good" because she had for a long time been conscientiously doing a nurse's duties, and did she think of sending her to some difficult post, requiring courage and constancy? She was cheerfully ready for anything. Only one thing troubled her; it was that the memory of Jean seemed to be relegated to so distant a past, seemed to hold so small a place in the thoughts of the people whom she was about to see, she being still in deep mourning, and having been away only seventeen months, to mourn for Jean. Why did Odette go directly from the Avenue d'Iena to see Clotilde? Not in the least by reason of the love of contrast, or the need for it, but because she was passing the Place of the United States, which attracted her with its trees adorned with their young leafage. She found Clotilde as she had always found her, extended upon an ancient couch, amid twenty cushions, a dozen books and magazines, in an elegant room, with a bunch of carnations flaunting their glory, and hyacinths in pots surrounding the young woman with a fragrant suggestion of spring. "Ah!" exclaimed Odette as she entered, without quite perceiving the significance of her exclamation. Clotilde, perfumed and her tall figure clothed in a Babani robe, kissed her joyfully. "You haven't fallen off much, Odette. Tell me, are these your cheeks? No more rouge than in the old days? Oh, how often I think of your loss, my dear!" She was the first person, except La Villaumer, who had spoken to her of her loss. Then there was still some one who remembered what had been her happiness, her extraordinary happiness. "I haven't written to you, Odette, because I was too lazy, and because I need to imagine the face of the person to whom I write. So far away, under your nurse's cap, I couldn't tell--you are pretty; I love you always. Oh, how sorry I am for you!"