At Paimpol Marie, with her son, has climbed into the diligence which
moves off and is bearing them away. Through the door she watches her
mother-in-law who has had the grace to accompany them from Plouherzel to
see them off, but who has said good-bye briefly and coldly, a good-bye
to chill the heart.
She watches her and is puzzled; for the old woman is running now,
running after the diligence--and her face, too, is working; she seems to
be making some kind of grimace. What can she want of them? And as she
watches Marie becomes almost afraid. For she is grimacing still. And
see! now she is crying! Her poor features are quite contorted, and her
tears fall fast. . . . And now she understands!
"For the love of heaven! stop the diligence, sir, if you please," says
Marie to an Icelander, who is sitting near her and who, too, has
understood; for he passes his arm through the little window in front and
pulls the conductor by the sleeve.
The diligence stops. The grandmother, who has continued to run, is at
the back, almost on the step; she stretches out her hands to them, and
her face is bathed in tears.
Marie gets down and the old woman throws her arms round her, embraces
her, embraces little Pierre.
"My dear child! may God in His goodness be with you."
And she weeps and sobs.
"My child, with Yves, you know, you must be very gentle, you must take
him by the heart; you will see that you can be happy with him. Perhaps
I was too hard with his poor father. God bless you, my dear daughter!"
And there they stand, united in the same love for Yves, and weeping
together.
"Now then, my good women!" cries the conductor, "when will you have
finished rubbing noses?"
They had to drag them apart. And Marie, seated once more in her corner,
watches as she draws away, with eyes filled with tears, the old woman,
who has sunk down, sobbing, on a milestone, while little Pierre waves
good-bye with his plump little hand from the window.