M. Deshoulieres went sadly home that night. It was not of his own grey future that he was thinking, nor of the accusations that had been heaped upon him so unexpectedly--he almost smiled as he recalled them. He was thinking of Therese and of Fabien. Was this man to whom her heart had gone out, one who would keep it, and treasure it, and cherish it? There was a deep intolerable pain in the question that would come surging up in spite of his efforts to still it. The stars shone out, and a fresh rustling breeze was swaying the stiff sycamores, lights were gleaming from the old houses, the vines on the balconies had changed into dusky masses. The shadowy old sounds and sights were very familiar and sweet to poor Max, but this night they seemed to have lost their power. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. "Aimer sans Amour est amer." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Therese was waiting for M. Deshoulieres the next morning when he went to Rue St Servan. He could not tell how she looked; she was eager, troubled, doubtful, all at once. He did not yet know what had happened, but he guessed directly. "Ah, that poor madame!" she said shuddering. "It is too terrible--" and then she stopped. He saw that she had been overwrought. All that night Madame Roulleau had lain on the floor by the child's bed, in a fierce agony of despair, not weeping, but writhing. Once she had looked up with dry, burning eyes, and said to Therese hoarsely, "Your lover is come. Do you remember? _he_ told you so once, and I beat him for it. Do you hear that, all of you? I told a lie, and I beat my little Adolphe." There was something so terrible in her voice and in her face, that Therese and Nannon shrank. And this was all that she knew of Fabien. The poor child, in spite of her bravery, could hardly endure these different emotions that were tearing at her heart. Nothing at the hospital had been so dreadful to witness as the sight of that hard, insupportable agony. And in the midst of it she had been told that Fabien was come. "What is it all?" she said, putting out her hand to Max, with an appealing glance that went to his heart. He answered it at once with a kind smile. "There is good news for you. M. Saint-Martin has come at last." "So it is true!" Her face changed suddenly, her eyes danced. "I could not believe it; but if you say so, I know it is true." Yes, those grave blue eyes were true as truth itself. There was a burden to be borne by one, perhaps by both of them, and his work should be to lighten hers. "You may believe it, indeed. I have seen him--" "Seen him!" Such gladness in her face!--such gladness in her voice! "And you shall meet him to-day at the Cygne." Something made her put out her hand to him again. "What do I not owe you!" she said, gratefully.