The Fear of Living by Henry Bordeaux

On the veranda Madame Guibert was waiting for the return of "her children. " Her arms were crossed on the iron balustrade; hidden in one of her hands she held a rosary, the beads of which she told while her lips murmured the _Ave Maria_. A peace as deep as that which had fallen over the land now reigned over her tear-stained face.

She saw Paule come back sobbing distractedly and tried in vain to stop her.

"Paule, what is the matter? Tell me," she called. But the girl passed her without a word and fled to her room.

Madame Guibert turned to follow her. Then she changed her mind, threw a shawl round her shoulders, and descended the steps. With trembling feet, summoning all her strength, she went up the avenue and posted herself near the open gate which looked on to the road.

"He cannot have passed yet," she thought. "Paule came back so quickly."

By the light of the setting sun she scanned the deserted road. All round her she heard nothing but the never-ceasing, strident sound of the crickets and the occasional flutter of a heavy chestnut-leaf blown down by the wind. After a few minutes of suspense, she saw the young man's shadow on the path which skirts the Montcharvin meadows. He walked along with his head bowed, and his body stooping listlessly. As he came nearer she read easily the expression of sadness in his face. So absorbed was he in his sorrow that he did not notice her standing to his right beside the stone column. As he passed her, she called to him:

"Jean!"

Surprised to hear his own name he turned round and saw the old lady smiling sweetly at him. He took off his hat and came up to her.

"I am so unhappy," he said simply, as if he were telling his troubles to his own mother. Madame Guibert held out her hand to him.

"Jean, give me your arm. Let us go in, night is coming on and it is getting cold."

He gave her his arm, answering in dull accents: "Madame Guibert, you know that I must not come in any more. But I will take you back as far as the door."

The golden splashes of twilight sought to blend with the thick trunks of the chestnuts. Daylight was fighting obstinately with darkness. Slowly and silently the pair walked over the gravel of the avenue. At the foot of the steps, as he was going to bid her good-bye she said:

"Come in with me. I want to talk to you. Paule is not in the drawing-room."

He tried to resist, then gave way indifferently and followed Madame Guibert. He was like a condemned man, who does not believe in the chaplain's consolations and yet listens to him.

When he had shut the door she turned to him and taking his two hands looked at him steadily with her clear eyes.

"She has refused to be your wife?"

"She ran away in tears."

"Jean, my dear Jean, you did not understand."

Her affectionate words soothed his pain, but also had the effect of softening his resolution, and he was ready to burst into tears.

"I am sure she does not love me," he said. "I love her _so_ much."