He made his toilet with feminine coquetry, put on a white waistcoat, which suited him better with the coat than a black one, sent for the hairdresser to give him a finishing touch With the curling iron, for he had preserved his hair, and started very early in order to show his eagerness to see her.

The first thing he saw on entering a pretty drawing-room newly furnished was his own portrait, an old faded photograph, dating from the days when he was a beau, hanging on the wall in an antique silk frame.

He sat down and waited.  A door opened behind him.  He rose up abruptly, and, turning round, beheld an old woman with white hair who extended both hands toward him.

He seized them, kissed them one after the other several times; then, lifting up his head, he gazed at the woman he had loved.

Yes, it was an old lady, an old lady whom he did not recognize, and who, while she smiled, seemed ready to weep.

He could not abstain from murmuring: 

“Is it you, Lise?”

She replied: 

“Yes, it is I; it is I, indeed.  You would not have known me, would you?  I have had so much sorrow—­so much sorrow.  Sorrow has consumed my life.  Look at me now—­or, rather, don’t look at me!  But how handsome you have kept—­and young!  If I had by chance met you in the street I would have exclaimed:  ‘Jaquelet!’.  Now, sit down and let us, first of all, have a chat.  And then I will call my daughter, my grown-up daughter.  You’ll see how she resembles me—­or, rather, how I resembled her—­no, it is not quite that; she is just like the ‘me’ of former days—­you shall see!  But I wanted to be alone with you first.  I feared that there would be some emotion on my side, at the first moment.  Now it is all over; it is past.  Pray be seated, my friend.”

He sat down beside her, holding her hand; but he did not know what to say; he did not know this woman—­it seemed to him that he had never seen her before.  Why had he come to this house?  What could he talk about?  Of the long ago?  What was there in common between him and her?  He could no longer recall anything in presence of this grandmotherly face.  He could no longer recall all the nice, tender things, so sweet, so bitter, that had come to his mind that morning when he thought of the other, of little Lise, of the dainty Ashflower.  What, then, had become of her, the former one, the one he had loved?  That woman of far-off dreams, the blonde with gray eyes, the young girl who used to call him “Jaquelet” so prettily?

They remained side by side, motionless, both constrained, troubled, profoundly ill at ease.

As they talked only commonplaces, awkwardly and spasmodically and slowly, she rose and pressed the button of the bell.

“I am going to call Renee,” she said.

There was a tap at the door, then the rustle of a dress; then a young voice exclaimed: 

“Here I am, mamma!”