hem
has rung his bell yet. But tell me, Suzanne, aren't you going away?"

"To-morrow ... or the next day.... I confess, I'm in no hurry to go."

Mme. Morestal took her to her daughter-in-law's room and asked:

"Philippe's still asleep, isn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Marthe. "I haven't heard him move...."

"Nor I Morestal.... And yet he's an early riser, as a rule.... And
Philippe, who wanted to go tramping at daybreak!... However, so much the
better, sleep suits both of my men.... By the way, Marthe, didn't the
shooting wake you in the night?"

"The shooting!"

"Oh, of course, your room is on the other side. The sound came from the
frontier.... Some poacher, I suppose...."

"Were M. Morestal and Philippe in?"

"Surely! It must have been one or two o'clock ... perhaps later ... I
don't quite know."

She put the tea-pot and the jar of honey, which Marthe had had for
breakfast, on the tray; and, with her mania for tidying, obeying some
mysterious principle of symmetry, settled her daughter-in-law's things
and any piece of furniture in the room that had been moved from its
place. This done, with her hands hanging before her, she looked round
for an excuse to discontinue this irksome activity. Then, discovering
none, she left the room.

"How early you are," said Marthe to Suzanne.

"I wanted air ... and movement.... Besides, I told Philippe that I would
come and fetch him. I want to go and see the ruins of the
Petite-Chartreuse with him ... It's a bore that he's not up yet."

She seemed disappointed at this accident which deprived her of a
pleasure.

"Do you mind if I finish my letters?" asked Marthe, taking up her pen.

Suzanne strolled round the room, looking out of the window, leant to see
if Philippe's was open, then sat down opposite Marthe and examined her
long and carefully. She noted the eye-lids, which were a little rumpled;
the uneven colouring; the tiny wrinkles on the temples; a few white
hairs mingling with the dark tresses; all that proclaims time's little
victories over waning youth. And, raising her eyes, she saw herself in a
glass.

Marthe surprised her glance and cried, with an admiration free from all
envy:

"You are splendid, Suzanne! You look like a triumphant goddess. What
triumph have you achieved?"

Suzanne flushed and, in her confusion, said, at random:

"But you, Marthe, you look worried...."

"Well, yes ... perhaps I am."

And Marthe told how, on the previous evening,