M. Raindal explained the use of those statues. They had been placed in the tombs in order to help the dead in their labors in the other life. He then gave Mme. Chambannes the names of the divinities on the shelf above: Hathor the cow-headed, jackal-headed Anubis, hawk-headed Horus, Osiris, the god of the netherworld, with his huge tiara; Thueris, a frightful idol with the head of a hippopotamus and a woman's breast, who was, it was thought, consecrated to motherhood or to preserving people from ill-luck. The master spoke of them all tenderly and volubly as if he had imagined them and made them himself with his own hands. Well, had he not created them? Had he not given them life when he tore them one by one from the Nothingness of the sands or the depths of the tombs? The scarabs of colored stones were also, every one of them, his own discoveries. He had put a pin through them and laid them side by side on white grooves as one does with a collection of real insects. Near these scarabs there was a case in which had been thrown three heavy gold rings, their bezels engraved with hieroglyphics, which had doubtless been worn on the dry, yellow fingers of imperious Pharaohs. "All these things are terribly old, are they not?" Mme. Chambannes asked. "It depends," M. Raindal replied. "On an average, they date back 3000, perhaps 4000 or 5000 years!" "Really!... And if I went to Egypt, next year ... I could find some like these?..." "It is possible ... if one digs deep enough.... The desert is chock full of them!" "How interesting!" the young woman murmured dreamily. Behind her, Thérèse stamped the floor with impatience. She started when she heard Mme. Chambannes proceed: "And now, my dear master, I have a small favor to ask of you.... Are you free in a fortnight, on December 12th?" "Well, Madame!..." M. Raindal stammered, trying hard to guess, in spite of his poor eyesight, the meaning of the grimaces Thérèse was making at him. "Because, if you were free, you would do me great honor and give me much pleasure if you would dine with me at my house." M. Raindal bowed. "Hm! Hm!... Certainly, Madame.... I can ask Mme. Raindal.... At least, I do not think she is engaged for that evening...." He turned to his daughter. "Is it not so, dear? Your mother has not, so far as I know...." Thérèse cut his sentence short with the brutal admission: "No, father, we are free!" She felt her hand tremble on the glass case where it lay. Anything, anything, just so she could get rid of that woman! So that she would go away, back to her tall coxcomb, that Gerald whose mistress she must surely be! Later they could get out of the engagement. Let her only go! Not to see her any more in the room, not to hear her voice any more, no longer to breathe in her perfume, like that of Gerald, heavy!