Ah! M. Raindal understood the severity of the girl towards his little pupil. Envy, alas; of course, it was envy! A jealousy that was incapable of discerning anything in Mme. Chambannes beyond the gaps in her learning and her intellectual poverty--as if erudition meant everything in a woman; as if beauty, elegance, the art of attracting did not also rank among the precious gifts and the powerful faculties. His discovery exalted him to such a point that he felt himself caught in a sudden rush of compassion, instead of mentally reproaching her for the physical disgrace she had suffered which had for some time unwittingly ill-disposed him toward her. He ran to Thérèse and ardently kissed her forehead. She kissed him in return on the cheek, in an attempt at tenderness. But her body was bent back and gave the instant lie to the smile on her lips. There had passed between them an intangible sorcery which prevented their hearts from opening as of old, forbade confidence and precluded the solidarity which had united them as co-workers for so many years.... They went back to their work, resenting their powerlessness to commune with one another again, mutually embittered by the failure of their attempt, cursing each other inwardly for the wrongs which each laid at the other's door. The week started anew in this state of apparent harmony that was heavy with discord. * * * * * One night in early March, as mild as a summer night, M. Raindal, returning home from the Chambannes', saw a light in his daughter's room. This made him anxious, for the hour was late; he knocked at the door and entered almost at the same time. Thérèse was sobbing in her pillow; she had not undressed but lay on her uncovered bed. M. Raindal rushed forward to help her up, but she did not wait for him. She looked up and rubbed the tears from her eyes. He inquired, still holding her in his arms: "What is the matter, dearest?... Were you crying? What is the trouble?" She released herself with a brusque movement of her shoulders: "Nothing, father! Thanks.... It is nothing.... Leave me alone, please!" "Then you do not need me?" M. Raindal murmured in surprise. "No, no, I assure you.... Go away.... I tell you it is nothing at all.... Just my nerves!..." He dared not insist, for fear of exasperating her; he retired and shut the door behind him with particular care, as if he had left a sick-room. Nerves!... Hm!... A woman's excuse, a veil of sickness with which they cover up the secret of their anger. What could be the matter with Thérèse? What was it that caused her such great pain? Remorse insinuated: "If it were you! Suppose your Thursday visits, your obstinacy were the cause of it!" M. Raindal resolved to probe this to the very bottom, to question Thérèse the very next morning.