"Leave him alone, mother!" Thérèse said, her fingers trembling on the edge of her plate. "Father does not know what he is saying any more.... All I wish is that he were as clear-sighted as other people, that he could perceive the abyss of ridicule towards which he is rushing, and dragging us with him, too." M. Raindal, exasperated, struck the table with his fist, and called his wife to witness: "Do you hear how she dares to treat me?... She has lost her reason.... She is mad...." "Am I mad!" Thérèse exclaimed. She ran out to her room and returned almost immediately, throwing three newspapers on the table. "If I am mad, I am not the only one.... Read this! I take it that they are not all mad, those who write for these sheets...." Her trembling hands pointed to certain paragraphs on the open pages which had been marked with a pencil. With a gesture of contempt, M. Raindal snatched at the nearest of the three, and read: "Who said that women were no longer interested in history? Surely not our old friend La Crois-Chammerilles, who told me yesterday the following anecdote: "'For the last six months, one of our prettiest exotics has been taken up with ancient history. And every week, one of our most noted savants comes to her house to give her lessons. "'As to the period of history of which he teaches her, and as to the name of the illustrious professor, seek them in the neighborhood of the Institute and remember also one of the greatest literary successes of last autumn. "'Ancient history--old story!'" M. Raindal gave one push and the other two newspapers fell to the floor. "Do you dare to soil me with such infamy?" He stamped with his heels on the papers: "There, that's what I think of your filthy rags!... Pshaw! To think that my daughter, my own daughter, collects this filth, and in my own home constitutes herself the auxiliary of my enemies!" He fell back on his chair. Thérèse rushed to him: "Father, father!" she implored, kneeling down beside him, "forgive me.... You have misunderstood me.... I failed in showing you proper regard, I was not careful enough ... but you know that I love you, that I am quite incapable of wishing to cause you any pain." M. Raindal looked at her with a softened glance. She insisted: "Kiss me ... forgive me my quickness of temper.... I swear to you...." Gently he forced her to her feet and set her on his knees as if she were a little child: "All is forgotten.... I forgive you.... There, don't cry, it's over.... It is of no importance." Her voice checked by sobs, she went on: "I swear to you, father ... it was for your own good...." "What good?" said M. Raindal, and his arms relaxed their embrace. Thérèse replied diffidently: "The good of your reputation, of your name.... You do not realize, father. You are blinded by your friendship.... But you are on the way to compromise both...."