At last he ceased; he had told the whole story.  She bowed and walked toward the door.

“Are you going?  What a hurry you’re in!” said the grandfather, following her outside.

At heart he was a little ashamed of his savagery.

“Won’t you breakfast with me?”

She shook her head, not having strength to speak.

“At least wait till the carriage is ready—­some one will drive you to the station.”

No, still no.

And she walked on, with the old man close behind her.  Proudly, and with head erect, she crossed the courtyard, filled with souvenirs of her childhood, without once looking behind.  And yet what echoes of hearty laughter, what sunbeams of her younger days were imprinted in the tiniest grain of gravel in that courtyard!

Her favorite tree, her favorite bench, were still in the same place.  She had not a glance for them, nor for the pheasants in the aviary, nor even for the great dog Kiss, who followed her docilely, awaiting the caress which she did not give him.  She had come as a child of the house, she went away as a stranger, her mind filled with horrible thoughts which the slightest reminder of her peaceful and happy past could not have failed to aggravate.

“Good-by, grandfather.”

“Good-by, then.”

And the gate closed upon her harshly.  As soon as she was alone, she began to walk swiftly, swiftly, almost to run.  She was not merely going away, she was escaping.  Suddenly, when she reached the end of the wall of the estate, she found herself in front of the little green gate, surrounded by nasturtiums and honeysuckle, where the chateau mail-box was.  She stopped instinctively, struck by one of those sudden awakenings of the memory which take place within us at critical moments and place before our eyes with wonderful clearness of outline the most trivial acts of our lives bearing any relation to present disasters or joys.  Was it the red sun that suddenly broke forth from the clouds, flooding the level expanse with its oblique rays in that winter afternoon as at the sunset hour in August?  Was it the silence that surrounded her, broken only by the harmonious sounds of nature, which are almost alike at all seasons?

Whatever the cause she saw herself once more as she was, at that same spot, three years before, on a certain day when she placed in the post a letter inviting Sidonie to come and pass a month with her in the country.  Something told her that all her misfortunes dated from that moment.  “Ah! had I known—­had I only known!” And she fancied that she could still feel between her fingers the smooth envelope, ready to drop into the box.

Thereupon, as she reflected what an innocent, hopeful, happy child she was at that moment, she cried out indignantly, gentle creature that she was, against the injustice of life.  She asked herself:  “Why is it?  What have I done?”

Then she suddenly exclaimed:  “No! it isn’t true.  It can not be possible.  Grandfather lied to me.”  And as she went on toward the station, the unhappy girl tried to convince herself, to make herself believe what she said.  But she did not succeed.