Bernard would have to understand that at that time she was far from hating him, although she often found him a nuisance: but she did not suppose that any other man could help her. Bernard, all things considered, was not so bad. She hated the descriptions in novels of marvellous creatures that no one ever meets in real life. The only outstanding personality she thought she had ever known was her father. She tried to persuade herself that this obstinate, suspicious old radical was something of a figure. He was a man of many interests: manufacturer, landed proprietor (besides a saw-mill at B----, he handled his own resin and that of his numerous relatives in a factory at Saint Clair)--but, above all, a politician, whose brusque manner had done him harm but made him much respected at the Prefecture. And how he did despise women! He even despised Thérèse, when every one was praising her intelligence. And now since the tragedy: “They’re all hysterics when they aren’t fools,” he used to say to his lawyer. And this old anticlerical had his ideas of decency. Though he would often hum a refrain from Béranger, he could not endure certain subjects being mentioned in his presence,--indeed, he blushed like a schoolboy. Bernard had heard from Monsieur de la Trave that Monsieur Larroque had been a virgin when he married: “and since he has been a widower I have always understood there was never any talk of a mistress. He’s a character, your father!” Yes, he was a character. But if Thérèse’s view of him, at a distance, was rather highly coloured, as soon as he was with her, she took the measure of his mean soul. He seldom came to Saint Clair, but more often to Argelouse, as he did not like meeting the La Traves. In their presence, although politics were forbidden, the old stupid quarrel began the moment the soup was brought in and soon became embittered. Thérèse would have been ashamed to take part in it: she took a pride in never opening her mouth, except when they touched on the religious question. Then she rushed to Monsieur Larroque’s assistance. Everybody shouted, so much so that Aunt Clara caught a few scattered phrases, joined the mêlée and, in the raucous tones of the deaf, let loose all the fury of the hardened radical, “who knows all about what goes on in convents”; she was, Thérèse thought, really more of a believer than any of the La Traves, but she was in open war against the Almighty who had allowed her to be deaf and ugly, and to die without ever having known love nor passion. Since one day when Madame de la Trave had left the table, by common consent they avoided metaphysics. However, politics were quite enough to make them all lose their tempers; though they all, whether they belonged to the Right or the Left, were in full agreement on this essential principle: “Property is the only good thing in the world, and the ownership of land is the only thing worth living for. Must we give up anything and, if so, how much?”