"I don't conceal from myself how regrettable such a situation is. You have no one else to blame for it but your two selves, and your secret hostility towards me.... Everything has an ending, even patience.... And for the last six months, you have strangely overtaxed mine!" He disappeared. Then, as if he wished to barricade himself against any attempt at conciliation, his key turned twice in the key-hole. M. Raindal had locked himself up. "Well, my poor child!" Mme. Raindal whispered, her eyes shining with tears. Either because she was afraid of being heard or because she instinctively imitated the hollow voice of her father, Thérèse replied quietly: "What can I say, mother!... It is lamentable.... I didn't think that the evil had gone so far.... Our intervention has come too late!" "I know it, dear," the old lady sighed. Thérèse remained silent, leaning on the table, in an attitude of angry reverie. "What is to become of us?" Mme. Raindal went on, in a kind tone. "If we shut our eyes, that wicked woman will take him away from us. If we cross him, he will leave us. And we are alone, absolutely alone, without anyone to advise us and defend us...." "Possibly not!" the young girl replied, looking up. "Have you anyone in mind?" "Yes, Uncle Cyprien.... I don't see anyone else who can scare father.... I am going there now, at once.... I shall work him up, rouse him to white heat.... And, I should be very disappointed if, with such heavy artillery, we could not overcome the resistance of father!" The comparison made Mme. Raindal smile in spite of her tears: "If you hope to succeed with him, go there now, dear! Alas! we have no time to waste!" Thérèse bent over her and kissed her: "Don't cry, dear mother!... Courage!... I have an idea that we have not lost yet!..." "May God hear you, my poor dearest!" murmured Mme. Raindal, rolling her eyes with a prayerful expression towards the ceiling. * * * * * Her Uncle Cyprien's door was ajar when Thérèse reached the sixth floor. She knocked, asking at the same time: "May I come in?" "Come in, come in!" From the passage an odor of kerosene was already perceptible. Uncle Cyprien sat on a stool, a towel across his knees, cleaning his tricycle, which stood wheels up and saddle down, like an overturned carriage. "It's you, nephew!" he said, speaking through a corner of his mouth, the other being obstructed by an enormous cigar.... "Take a chair.... You'll excuse me, won't you? When I clean my machine, I get all mixed up if I stop in the middle of it.... Have you found a chair? Very good.... Well, I must say, I didn't expect you!... Nothing unpleasant, I hope?... Your father is not ill, is he?..." Thérèse replied: "Ill? That wouldn't be so serious in comparison!" "Sapristi!" Uncle Cyprien exclaimed, opening his eyes wide. "You frighten me! Worse than being ill, what is it? Good God, what can it be?..."