All manner of people knelt about her humble bed; a child of Argelouse, one of those who ran away when she came near, was brought dying into Thérèse’s room; she laid her nicotine-stained fingers on him, and he got up cured. She had other and less exalted dreams. She planned a house by the seaside, saw in her mind’s eye the garden, and the terrace, arranged the rooms, chose each piece of furniture one by one, tried to make up her mind where she would put what she had brought from Saint Clair, and argued with herself over the choice of materials. Then the scene would fade, the outlines grew confused, and nothing was left but an arbour and a bench beside the sea. And there Thérèse was sitting, her head against the shoulder of one who sat beside her; she got up, as the bell rang for dinner, and went into the darkened arbour with some one walking at her side who suddenly flung his arms about her and drew her to him. A kiss, she thought, must bring time to a standstill; she imagined that in love there must be seconds that last for ever. So she imagined; but she would never know. Once more she sees the white house and the well; she hears the harsh voice of the pump; the courtyard is full of the fragrance of heliotrope; dinner will be a rest before the joys of the evening and the night, which she dares not conceive, for they pass so far beyond the powers of the human heart. Thus, the love of which Thérèse, of all women, had been utterly frustrated, possessed and pervaded all her being. She could hardly hear Balionte’s hoarse cries. The old creature was trying to convey to her that Monsieur Bernard would come back from the South one day or another without letting them know. And what would he say when he saw that room? It was little better than a pig-sty! Madame must get up whether she liked it or not.