During /dejeuner/, in order to explain the frightful discomfort
into which he was thrown by the gaiety of the meal, he had been obliged
to say that he felt poorly. And now he was looking and listening and
waiting with ever-growing anxiety.
Shortly before three o'clock, Guillaume glanced at his watch and then
quietly took up his hat. "Well," said he, "I'm going out."
His sons, Mere-Grand and Marie raised their heads.
"I'm going out," he repeated, "/au revoir/."
Still he did not go off. Pierre could divine that he was struggling,
stiffening himself against the frightful tempest which was raging within
him, striving to prevent either shudder or pallor from betraying his
awful secret. Ah! he must have suffered keenly; he dared not give his
sons a last kiss, for fear lest he might rouse some suspicion in their
minds, which would impel them to oppose him and prevent his death! At
last with supreme heroism he managed to overcome himself.
"/Au revoir/, boys."
"/Au revoir/, father. Will you be home early?"
"Yes, yes. . . . Don't worry about me, do plenty of work."
Mere-Grand, still majestically silent, kept her eyes fixed upon him. Her
he had ventured to kiss, and their glances met and mingled, instinct with
all that he had decided and that she had promised: their common dream of
truth and justice.
"I say, Guillaume," exclaimed Marie gaily, "will you undertake a
commission for me if you are going down by way of the Rue des Martyrs?"
"Why, certainly," he replied.
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