He went down and approached the mansion. As he raised his head, the door at the top of the steps opened slightly,--that rusty door that was almost sealed with moss. But he walked in a stupor,--nothing astonished him. As soon as he entered, the door closed, and a small icy hand led him upstairs. He went along a corridor, passed through a room, and, at last, found himself in a room that he knew. It was the dreamed-of paradise, the room with the rose silk curtains. He was tempted to sink to his knees. Therese stood before him very erect, her hands tightly clasped, and resolutely holding under control the tremor that had possession of her. "You love me?" she asked in a low voice. "Oh! yes, yes!" he stammered. She made a gesture, as if to forestall any useless words. She continued, with a haughty manner that seemed to render her words natural and chaste. "If I gave myself to you, you would do anything for me,--wouldn't you?" He could not answer,--he clasped his hands. For a kiss from her, he would sell himself. "Well! I have a service to exact of you. We must swear to keep the bargain. I swear to carry out my part of it. Now, swear, swear!" "Oh! I swear,--anything you wish!" he cried, in absolute abandonment. The pure odor of her room intoxicated him. The curtains of the alcove were drawn, and the thought of that virgin bed in the softened shadow of the rose silk, filled him with a religious ecstasy. Then, with a brutal movement, she tore the curtains apart, revealing the alcove, into which the faint evening light penetrated. The bed was in disorder. The coverings trailed over the sides, a pillow on the floor was ripped open as if by teeth. And, in the midst of the rumpled laces, lay the body of a man, thrown across the bed. "There!" she explained in a strangled voice. "That man was my lover. I pushed him and he fell. I know no more. Well, he is dead; and you must carry him away! You understand? That is all,--yes, that is all! There!" III When very small, Therese de Marsanne made Colombel her fag and butt. He was her elder by about six months, and Françoise, his mother, had weaned him in order to nurse Therese. Therese was a terrible child. Not that she was a noisy tomboy. On the contrary, she had a singular seriousness that made her appear as a well bred child before visitors, for whom she made graceful curtseys. But she had very strange ways; she would burst into inarticulate cries, stamping madly about, when she was alone. No one ever knew her thoughts. Even as a child, instead of her eyes being clear mirrors revealing her soul, they were like dark cavities, of an inky blackness, in which it was impossible to read.