"Do you wish to know why I have come?" she went on. "_Tenez_, you can hear, then, all of you. My little Adolphe is dead--dead, do you understand?--dead of the fever; and my husband, who was frightened, has left him and me by ourselves. That is what husbands should do, is it not?" She spoke like a person in an agony; Therese shuddered. "Some one said M. Saint-Martin was here--it was either that sister or Adolphe, I do not know which. I can tell you all about it. We will begin from the beginning--that was at Ardron. M. Deshoulieres, as you know, and my husband brought me home the letters which he found,--two letters from Rio Janeiro asking for money. I burned them. Burning is always safe. Two others came afterwards, and those I burned also. We wrote those answers that we had from Paris. Is that all? No, I remember. There was that appointment at Pont-huine, when you sent Ignace, but it was easy enough for him to stay away." "Unhappy woman," said the cure, sternly, "what led you into all this wickedness?" She did not answer him. She had her eyes still fixed upon M. Deshoulieres, and she never looked aside. "Ask her," said the cure. "Why was this, Madame Roulleau?" said the doctor, sadly. "We wanted the money," she answered at once; "the money you gave us for the girl. And what Ignace had to do about it brought in money. We knew it must all go again when M. Saint-Martin came home. Last night I said to myself that I would tell you; I do not know why I came here; the sister said something, I believe. She is staying with him." And then, with a bitter cry which they never forgot, "He is dead--dead! I dared not send for you, and you might have saved him." She went swiftly out of the room, down the stairs, into the street. If they had wished to stop her they could scarcely have done so; but they all stood dumb, that last cry ringing in their ears. "_Libera nos a malo_," said the cure, at last, under his breath. "_Amen_." He was a just man. Perhaps his prayer had not only to do with that poor stricken woman who had gone out from them. Perhaps he was thinking also of the evil of suspicions and accusations without cause. He was a just man, but ungracious. He wanted to speak at once to M. Deshoulieres, and the words would not come readily. Therese was looking shyly and beseechingly at Fabien. Why did he not acknowledge the unconscious wrong that he had done? Nobody spoke. It was Nannon who broke the silence, coming in from the balcony. "The saints preserve us! She has gone down the street as if there were a mob at her heels." "I may as well go and search for the will, I believe," said M. Deshoulieres, turning round with a sigh. Therese still looked at Fabien. Why did he not speak?