No news came of the little notary. After Madame Roulleau's confession, however, there could be no difficulty about the will. But there was a clause which the lawyer read slowly, and to which M. Deshoulieres, who knew what was coming, listened with knitted brows. A clause which bequeathed a small sum for the maintenance of Mademoiselle Therese Veuillot while she remained in Charville, "or until she be otherwise provided for by Monsieur Fabien Saint-Martin." M. Laurent paused. Fabien said, with a little laugh,-- "Ah! I remember. I used to have a _tendresse_ for the _belle Therese_. I suppose my uncle thought it might come to something. The sum is not much; it may as well be continued. _Allons_, M. Laurent, pass on." To tell the truth, he had begun to be afraid of M. Deshoulieres; but he had never so much cause to be afraid as at that moment. Nevertheless Max, still thinking of her, put a strong restraint upon himself, since that secret of hers must be sacred from all the world. He went slowly away from the Cygne when all his disagreeable work there was at an end. A train was nearly due, and the country people were flocking down to the station with empty baskets, and a merry confusion of shrill voices. It was pretty generally known what the meeting was arranging that day: he was not thinking about it when he found himself in the midst of a little hubbub of congratulations and smiling faces. It was so spontaneous that he was greatly touched; he broke away as soon as he could, but the warm homely blessings pursued him. Just as he reached the Cathedral, he saw Therese and Nannon going in. He followed her; she did not see him, but they were kneeling near one another, the vast length of the Cathedral stretched before them, with rich deep shadows. All the light came through gorgeous panes of sapphire, ruby, orange: it was indescribably beautiful and solemn. As she carried back her chair she saw him, and they went out together. The old women sitting in the porch and selling _brioche_ cakes, all knew of what was going on at the Prefecture, and stopped their knitting to nod and smile. Max, who only thought of Therese, looked at her sad face with an infinite pity in his heart. "Where are you going?" he asked. "I do not know," she said, wearily. "The funeral has been to-day, and poor madame cannot bear to see me. I came out because I thought she wished me away." "If mademoiselle stays in that miserable house she will die," said Nannon, bluntly. "Come this way," he said. He led her down through the little narrow street to the Place where his own house was. Except a few _bonnet_ with their charges, the little space under the trees was deserted. They sat down together on one of the green seats, and Nannon chatted with a little fat girl and her nurse, who were solemnly throwing a ball backward and forward with profound interest in their faces. Max was not quite clear how to begin, when Therese forestalled him.