Madame Rambaud was still praying on her knees in the snow before the grave of Jeanne.  Her husband had but a moment before risen silently to his feet.  Helene and her old lover had been married in November at Marseilles.  Monsieur Rambaud had disposed of his business near the Central Markets, and had come to Paris for three days, in order to conclude the transaction.  The carriage now awaiting them in the Rue des Reservoirs was to take them back to their hotel, and thence with their travelling-trunks to the railway station.  Helene had made the journey with the one thought of kneeling here.  She remained motionless, with drooping head, as if dreaming, and unconscious of the cold ground that chilled her knees.

Meanwhile the wind was falling.  Monsieur Rambaud had stepped to the terrace, leaving her to the mute anguish which memory evoked.  A haze was stealing over the outlying districts of Paris, whose immensity faded away in this pale, vague mist.  Round the Trocadero the city was of a leaden hue and lifeless, while the last snowflakes slowly fluttered down in pale specks against the gloomy background.  Beyond the chimneys of the Army Bakehouse, the brick towers of which had a coppery tint, these white dots descended more thickly; a gauze seemed to be floating in the air, falling to earth thread by thread.  Not a breath stirred as the dream-like shower sleepily and rhythmically descended from the atmosphere.  As they neared the roofs the flakes seemed to falter in their flight; in myriads they ceaselessly pillowed themselves on one another, in such intense silence that even blossoms shedding their petals make more noise; and from this moving mass, whose descent through space was inaudible, there sprang a sense of such intense peacefulness that earth and life were forgotten.  A milky whiteness spread more and more over the whole heavens though they were still darkened here and there by wreaths of smoke.  Little by little, bright clusters of houses became plainly visible; a bird’s-eye view was obtained of the whole city, intersected by streets and squares, which with their shadowy depths described the framework of the several districts.

Helene had slowly risen.  On the snow remained the imprint of her knees.  Wrapped in a large, dark mantle trimmed with fur, she seemed amidst the surrounding white very tall and broad-shouldered.  The border of her bonnet, a twisted band of black velvet, looked like a diadem throwing a shadow on her forehead.  She had regained her beautiful, placid face with grey eyes and pearly teeth.  Her chin was full and rounded, as in the olden days, giving her an air of sturdy sense and determination.  As she turned her head, her profile once more assumed statuesque severity and purity.  Beneath the untroubled paleness of her cheeks her blood coursed calmly; everything showed that honor was again ruling her life.  Two tears had rolled from under her eyelids; her present tranquillity came from her past sorrow.  And she stood before the grave on which was reared a simple pillar inscribed with Jeanne’s name and two dates, within which the dead child’s brief existence was compassed.