But husband and wife remained standing in the entrance-hall. The old lady saw Bernard open the door of the drawing-room, stand aside for Thérèse, and disappear after her. If she had not been deaf, she would have done a little eavesdropping ... but there was nothing to fear from her, buried, as she was, alive. She put out her candle, however, went downstairs again, and looked through the keyhole. Bernard was moving a lamp: his face was fully in the light, and he looked both nervous and solemn. The aunt saw the back of Thérèse seated; she had thrown her toque and mantle on to an arm-chair: her wet shoes were steaming in front of the fire. For one instant she turned her head to her husband and the old lady was glad to see she was smiling. * * * * * Thérèse was smiling. In the brief interval of space and time between the stable and the house, walking at Bernard’s side, she suddenly saw, or thought she saw, what she ought to do. The mere proximity of the man had destroyed her hope of explaining herself, or of giving him her confidence. How we distort the creatures we know best as soon as they are no longer there! During the whole of this journey, she had unconsciously been trying to create an image of a Bernard capable of understanding her;--but at the first glance he appeared to her just as he really was, one who had never once in his life put himself in another’s place; one who had never made the effort to get outside himself to see what his opponent was seeing. Indeed, would Bernard even listen to her? He paced the long, low, damp room, and the flooring, which was rotting here and there, creaked beneath his steps. He did not look at his wife,--he was bursting with a speech he had long since prepared. And Thérèse, too, knew what she was going to say. The simplest solution is always the one we never think of. She would say, ‘I am going to disappear, Bernard. Don’t worry about me. I will go out into the night at once, if you like. I am not afraid of the forest or the darkness. They know me: we know each other. I was created in the image of this arid land in which nothing lives except the birds that pass over it and stray wild boars. I consent to my expulsion; burn all my photographs; let even my daughter no longer know my name, let me be in the eyes of the family as if I had never been.’ And Thérèse opened her mouth, and said, “Let me disappear, Bernard.” At the sound of her voice Bernard turned. He hurried back from the far end of the room, the veins of his face swollen: “What,” he stuttered, “do you dare to express an opinion? Not another word! Your business is to listen, to receive my orders and obey what I shall decide once and for all.”