Thérèse poured the chloroform into the water: its name was more familiar to her and made her feel less frightened because it called up images of sleep. She must be quick: the house was awakening: Balionte had taken down the shutters in Aunt Clara’s room. What was she shouting to the deaf woman? The servant usually knew how to make herself understood by a movement of the lips. A noise of doors and hurried steps; Thérèse had only just the time to throw a shawl over the table to hide the poisons. Balionte came in without knocking. “Ma’m’iselle is dead! I found her dead, on her bed with all her clothes on. She is cold already.” * * * * * In spite of everything, a rosary was placed between the fingers of the old unbeliever, a crucifix on her breast. Tenants came in, knelt down, and went out, not without long looks at Thérèse who was standing at the head of the bed: (“And who knows if it wasn’t she who did it?”) Bernard had gone to Saint Clair to tell the Family and to make the necessary arrangements. He must have thought that this accident came at an opportune moment and would distract people’s attention. Thérèse looked at the body, the old faithful body that came and lay down in her path at the very moment she was going to hurl herself to death. Chance: coincidence? If any one talked about free-will, she used to shrug her shoulders. People said to each other: “Did you see? She didn’t even pretend to cry.” Thérèse was speaking silently to her who was no longer there: she must live, but like a corpse in the hands of those who hate her. She must try and look no further. At the funeral Thérèse took her proper place. On the following Sunday, she entered the church with Bernard who instead of going down the aisle, as his custom was, ostentatiously walked up the nave. Thérèse did not raise her crêpe veil until she had reached her place between her mother-in-law and her husband. She was hidden from the congregation by a pillar: opposite her was only the choir. She was hemmed in on every side: the mass of the congregation behind her, Bernard on the right, Madame de la Trave on the left, only the choir lay before her, as the arena stretches away in front of the bull when he emerges from the darkness: that empty space where between two children stood a man, disguised and muttering, with parted hands. CHAPTER XI