Maxime leaned forward without emotion, simply curious. He was greatly
surprised at sight of this robust woman of thirty-two, with so
sensible and so commonplace an air, in whom there was not a trace of
the wild little girl with whom he had been in love when both of the
same age were entering their seventeenth year. Perhaps a pang shot
through his heart to see her plump and tranquil and blooming, while he
was ill and already aged.

"I should never have recognized her," he said.

And the landau, still rolling on, turned into the Rue de Rome. Justine
had disappeared; this vision of the past--a past so different from the
present--had sunk into the shadowy twilight, with Thomas, the
children, and the shop.

At La Souleiade the table was set; Martine had an eel from the Viorne,
a _sauted_ rabbit, and a leg of mutton. Seven o'clock was striking,
and they had plenty of time to dine quietly.

"Don't be uneasy," said Dr. Pascal to his nephew. "We will accompany
you to the station; it is not ten minutes' walk from here. As you left
your trunk, you have nothing to do but to get your ticket and jump on
board the train."

Then, meeting Clotilde in the vestibule, where she was hanging up her
hat and her umbrella, he said to her in an undertone:

"Do you know that I am uneasy about your brother?"

"Why so?"