One of his most ardent wishes, though he would not admit it, was to see Therese again. He imagined her with pink cheeks, a mocking air, and shining eyes. But, as he did not dare approach his window in the daytime, he saw her only at night, enveloped by a gray shadow. One morning, as he was about to close one of his shutters to keep out the sun, he saw Therese standing in the middle of her room. She seemed to be reflecting. She was tall, very pale, with beautiful, regular features. He was almost afraid of her,--she was so different from the gay image he had formed of her. She had a rather large mouth, of a vivid red, and deep-set eyes, black and without a sparkle, giving her the air of a cruel queen. She came slowly toward the window; but she did not appear to see Julien. She went away again, and the rhythmic movement of her neck had so strong a grace that he felt as weak as a child beside her, in spite of his broad shoulders. Then began a miserable existence for the young man. That beautiful young woman, so serious and noble, living so near him, made him despair. She never looked at him; she ignored his existence. After a month had passed, he suffered from the disdain of the young girl. She came to the window, looked out on the deserted pavement, and retired without divining his proximity, as he watched, anxious, on the other side of the square. On warm evenings, he began playing again. He left his shutters open, and played, in the obscurity, those airs of bygone days, naive as the roundels of little girls. He chose moonless nights; the square was dark; no one knew whence came that song so sweet, brushing the sleeping houses with the soft wing of a nocturnal bird. And, the first evening, he had the emotion of seeing Therese approach the window, all in white negligee. She leaned on her elbows, surprised to hear again the music that greeted her the evening of her arrival. "Listen, Françoise," she said, in her serious voice, turning towards the room. "It is not a bird." "Oh!" answered the old woman, of whom Julien could see only the shadow, "it is some comedian amusing himself, a long distance from here." "Yes, a long distance," repeated the young girl, after a silence. From then on, Julien played louder every evening. His fever passed into the old flute of yellow wood. And Therese, who listened, was astonished at that music, the vibrant phrases of which, flitting from roof to roof, awaited the night to make their way to her. One night, the song burst forth so near that she surmised that it came from one of the old houses in the square. Julien breathed into the flute all his passion; the instrument vibrated like crystal. The darkness lent him such audacity that he hoped to draw her to him by the force of his song. And, effectually, Therese bent forward, as if attracted and conquered. "Come in," said the voice of the aged lady. "The night is stormy; you will have nightmare."