On the eighteenth, about three o’clock, on a cloudy but fine afternoon, Thérèse was sitting in her room in front of the fire, her head leaning against the back of the chair, and her eyes shut. She was awakened by the throbbing engines of a motor-car; she recognised Bernard’s voice in the entrance-hall and also Madame de la Trave’s. When Balionte, completely out of breath, had pushed open the door without knocking, Thérèse was already standing up before the mirror. She was putting rouge on her cheeks and lips. “I must not frighten the poor young man,” she said to herself. But Bernard had made a mistake in not going up to see his wife at once. Young Deguilhem, who had promised his family “to keep his eyes extremely wide open,” reflected that this was, “to say the least of it, a rather significant piece of neglect.” He drew a little aside from Anne and turned up his fur collar, remarking that “it was not worth trying to warm these country drawing-rooms.” “Have you no cellar below?” he asked Bernard. “If not, your floor will always rot unless you lay down a bed of cement....” Anne de la Trave was wearing a grey squirrel cloak, and a felt hat without any ribbon or bow. (“But,” as Madame de la Trave said, “it cost more just as it was, than our hats did with all their feathers and aigrettes. It is the best felt, certainly: it comes from Lailhaca, but it is a Reboux model.”) Madame de la Trave stretched out her boots to the fire, and her face, at once arrogant and weak, was turned towards the door. She had promised Bernard she would be equal to the situation, but she had warned him that she would not kiss Thérèse. “You cannot ask your mother to do that, it will be dreadful enough for me to have to touch her hand. My feeling is this: what she did was awful enough, God knows; but it isn’t that that revolts me the most. One already knew that there were people capable of committing murder ... but it’s her hypocrisy! That really is awful! Don’t you remember what she said: ‘Mother, do take this chair, you will be more comfortable....’ And don’t you remember when she was so frightened of giving you a shock? ‘The poor darling has such a horror of death, a consultation would be the end of him....’ God knows I didn’t suspect anything; but ‘poor darling,’ coming from her, did surprise me....” At present, in that Argelouse drawing-room, Madame de la Trave was only conscious of the embarrassment that every one was feeling; and she noticed young Deguilhem’s goggle eyes fixed on Bernard. “Bernard, you ought to go and see what Thérèse is doing ... perhaps she is feeling worse.”