Jean took her hand.

“You saw?” he said.

“Yes, I saw.  How good he is!”

And they turned to go home.

“Cristi!  How fast she goes!” exclaimed Roland with enthusiastic conviction.

The steamer, in fact, was shrinking every second, as though she were melting away in the ocean.  Mme. Roland, turning back to look at her, watched her disappearing on the horizon, on her way to an unknown land at the other side of the world.

In that vessel which nothing could stay, that vessel which she soon would see no more, was her son, her poor son.  And she felt as though half her heart had gone with him; she felt, too, as if her life were ended; yes, and she felt as though she would never see the child again.

“Why are you crying?” asked her husband, “when you know he will be back again within a month.”

She stammered out:  “I don’t know; I cry because I am hurt.”

When they had landed, Beausire at once took leave of them to go to breakfast with a friend.  Then Jean led the way with Mme. Rosemilly, and Roland said to his wife: 

“A very fine fellow, all the same, is our Jean.”

“Yes,” replied the mother.

And her mind being too much bewildered to think of what she was saying, she went on: 

“I am very glad that he is to marry Mme. Rosemilly.”

The worthy man was astounded.

“Heh?  What?  He is to marry Mme. Rosemilly?”

“Yes, we meant to ask your opinion about it this very day.”

“Bless me!  And has this engagement been long in the wind?”

“Oh, no, only a very few days.  Jean wished to make sure that she would accept him before consulting you.”

Roland rubbed his hands.

“Very good.  Very good.  It is capital.  I entirely approve.”

As they were about to turn off from the quay down the Boulevard Francois, his wife once more looked back to cast a last look at the high seas, but she could see nothing now but a puff of gray smoke, so far away, so faint that it looked like a film of haze.