Her eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, recognised at a turn of the road the farm where certain low buildings looked like animals crouching and asleep. It was here that Anne used to be frightened of a dog that would always run under the wheels of her bicycle. Further on, a clump of elders revealed a glimpse of water; and on the days of fiercest heat a breath of coolness fanned the girl’s cheeks at this point. A child on a bicycle, whose teeth gleamed under her sunbonnet, the sound of a bell, and a voice crying: “Look, I’m letting both my hands go!” And this blurred image, from those days now past for ever, was all that Thérèse could find to comfort her fainting heart. She repeated mechanically, in time with the rhythm of the horse’s hooves: “useless ... endless ... hopeless.” Ah! the only possible gesture,--Bernard would never make it. Supposing he did open his arms without asking her any questions! If only she could lay her head on a human breast, if only she could weep against a living body! She noticed the embankment on which Jean Azévédo had sat, one hot day. To think she had believed that some place existed in the world in which she could have fulfilled her destiny among beings who would have understood her, perhaps admired and loved her! But loneliness had eaten into her like a leper’s sores: “No one can help me. No one can hurt me.” * * * * * “Here is Monsieur, and Mademoiselle Clara.” Balion drew in the reins. Two shadows came forward. So Bernard, though still very weak, had come to meet her--impatient to know that all was well. She half-rose from her seat, and cried out before they met: “Case dismissed.” Merely replying, “Of course!” Bernard helped the aunt to climb into the carriage and took the reins. Balion was to go back on foot. Aunt Clara sat between husband and wife. They had to shout to her that it was all settled (she had, in fact, only the vaguest knowledge of the tragedy). The deaf woman began one of her usual interminable discourses; she said _They_ had always played the same game and that it was the Dreyfus affair all over again. “If you keep on throwing mud, some of it will always stick. _They_ were terribly powerful and the Republicans were very wrong not to keep their eyes open. As soon as these poisonous brutes are given the least chance, they’re on you at once....” These fatuities relieved the pair from the necessity of exchanging a single word. Aunt Clara, breathing heavily, went upstairs carrying a candle in her hand: “Aren’t you going to bed? Thérèse must be worn out. You will find a cup of bouillon and some cold chicken in your room.”