‘I take the part of common sense, Imogène. I cannot say to Berthier, be a hypocrite, go against nature. I always accept human nature as I find it, and I never attempt to force the stream into a channel too strait for it.’ Madame Berthier stood looking from side to side distractedly. ‘I find no help anywhere!’ she moaned. ‘Imogène, you have plenty to eat, good wine to drink, first-rate cookery; you employ an accomplished milliner; your rooms are handsomely furnished; you can drive out when it pleases you. What more _can_ you want?’ ‘Love,’ answered the poor woman. ‘I am always hungry. I am always in pain here,’ she pointed to her breast; ‘I want, I want, I want, and I never get what I desire.’ Then uttering another cry, like that which had escaped her when her husband insulted her, and running along the corridor from side to side, like a bird striving to escape, she beat the walls on this side, then on that, with her hands, uttering at intervals her piercing wail. Berthier came into the corridor and joined his father-in-law. ‘There is nothing more offensive to persons of sentiment than fact,’ said Foulon, brushing the tobacco from his nose and cheeks. ‘Before fact down go Religion, Poetry, Ethics, Art. People live in a dream-world, which they people with phantoms. Show them that all is a delusion, and they are wretched--they love to be deceived. Bah! I hate sentiment. It is on sentiment that Religion and Morality are based. What is sentiment? On my honour, I cannot tell.’ On reaching the end of the corridor, Madame Berthier stood still, and turning towards her husband and father, she raised her hands, and cried, as she did in church: ‘Avenge me on my adversaries!’ Then, becoming calmer, she called: ‘Gabriel!’ For the cat was standing at her door, and was mewing. The strangely-dyed beast, hearing her call, darted past the two men, and seating itself before her, looked up into her face. ‘My faithful Gabriel!’ she said. Then with a single bound it reached her shoulder, and placing its fore paws together balanced itself, whilst she walked slowly up the passage. The appearance of the woman in the dusk, in her long black gown and shawl, with her frightful head on one side to give room for the cat to stand comfortably, was wild and ghostly. She approached her husband and her father slowly. As she passed them, she turned her face towards Foulon, and said: ‘I have looked to you for help,’ she touched him with her stained finger. ‘I have looked to you for help,’ she touched Berthier on the breast, turning to him; ‘I find none.’ Throwing her hand up and pointing out of the window towards the evening star, that glittered above the horizon,--‘Queen of heaven, I have looked to you! And,’ she continued in a low voice, hoarse with suppressed emotion, ‘if she gives me none, I shall seek help in myself.’ ‘That is sensible, Imogène,’ said Foulon; ‘one should find resources in one’s self.’