Here Gilberte sought refuge like a poor wounded animal. The very sleepiness of Domfront had attracted her, its look as of some vanquished city, wearied of a valorous past and taking its just and honourable repose. Strolling through the ruins, she saw, on the door of the Logis, a notice, “TO LET.” She went in search of the owner. Mme. de la Vaudraye, a tall, thin, hard-eyed woman, expressed herself in affected sentences of which her lips formed the syllables carefully, one by one, as though they were things of price that must be carried to the highest pitch of perfection. “I can see from your attitude, madame,” she said, “that you have been struck by the unimpeachable condition of my house. Woodwork, mirrors, curtains, furniture: everything is in perfect repair. And yet the Logis is one of the most historic abodes in the district.” ... Gilberte was no longer listening. She had been called, “Madame.” It had seemed natural then to address her like that? If so, could she pass as married, in spite of her age? The thought surprised her. And yet, she reflected, how could any one suppose that a young girl would come by herself to treat for the manor-house and live in it by herself? She remembered a piece of advice which the solicitor had given her: “If you wish to lead a quiet life, not a word about the past before we have shed a full light upon it.” Yes, but how much easier it would be to veil the past under that name of “madame”! And how much better that title would protect her! As a girl, living alone, she must needs be the object of curiosity, the victim of any amount of gossip. As a married woman, she would be in a normal position; her solitary existence would cause no surprise; she could keep off intruders, go about as she pleased, or stay indoors and weep, with none to spy upon the secret of her tears. “In what name shall I make out the agreement?” asked Mme. de la Vaudraye, when everything was settled: settled to the great advantage of the owner, who had increased her rent by one-half. “Why, in my own name: Mme. Armand!” said Gilberte, without foreseeing the consequences which this decision involved. Mme. de la Vaudraye hesitated: “But ... perhaps we shall want ... M. Armand’s signature.” ... “I am a widow.” “Oh, I beg your pardon! I ought to have known. I see you are in mourning.” ... Mme. Armand moved into the Logis that same evening. At Mme. de la Vaudraye’s express recommendation, she engaged as a servant the wife of the keeper of the ruins, Adèle, a big, fat, talkative woman, with hair on her upper lip, a stealthy eye and quick, blunt manners. Bouquetot, her husband, was to sleep at the manor-house; and their son, Antoine, who had just left his regiment, would do the heavy work and attend to the garden. * * * * * And life began, the hard, cruel, despairing life of those who have no one to love them and no one whom they can love.