They had no time to stop, because the Pasteur thought that they were late for the train, which, as a matter of fact, did not leave for half-an-hour after they reached the station.

So they could only make mutual signals of recognition and farewell.

Juliette, who looked as though she were crying, kissed her hand to him, calling out: "Adieu, adieu! _cher ami_," while he sought refuge in the Englishman's usual expedient of taking off his hat.
"It is nothing, nothing," said the Pasteur, who had also noted Juliette's tear-swollen eyes, "to-morrow she will have Jules to console her, a most worthy young man, though me he bores." Here, it may be added, that Jules consoled her so well, that within a year they were married, and most happily.
Yet Godfrey was destined never to see that graceful figure and gay little face again, since long before he revisited Lucerne Juliette died on the birth of her third child.

And soon, who thought of Juliette except perhaps Godfrey, for her husband married again very shortly, as a worthy and domestic person of the sort would do.

Her children were too young to remember her, and her mother, not long afterwards, was carried off by a sudden illness, pneumonia, to join her in the Shades.
Except the Pasteur himself none was left.
Well, such is the way of this sad world of change and death.