"Yes, yes. . . . Don't worry about me, do plenty of work."

Mere-Grand, still majestically silent, kept her eyes fixed upon him. Her
he had ventured to kiss, and their glances met and mingled, instinct with
all that he had decided and that she had promised: their common dream of
truth and justice.

"I say, Guillaume," exclaimed Marie gaily, "will you undertake a
commission for me if you are going down by way of the Rue des Martyrs?"

"Why, certainly," he replied.

"Well, then, please look in at my dressmaker's, and tell her that I
shan't go to try my gown on till to-morrow morning."

It was a question of her wedding dress, a gown of light grey silk, the
stylishness of which she considered very amusing. Whenever she spoke of
it, both she and the others began to laugh.

"It's understood, my dear," said Guillaume, likewise making merry over
it. "We know it's Cinderella's court robe, eh? The fairy brocade and lace
that are to make you very beautiful and for ever happy."

However, the laughter ceased, and in the sudden silence which fell, it
again seemed as if death were passing by with a great flapping of wings
and an icy gust which chilled the hearts of everyone remaining there.

"It's understood; so now I'm really off," resumed Guillaume. "/Au
revoir/, children."