There were no difficulties with the Roulleaus; M. Deshoulieres went away from the house rather pleased with his own management. Therese was provided for, for the present; he had satisfied himself upon one or two points, had learned also that she did not care for Fabien. Poor stupid, blind Max! Monsieur and Mme. Roulleau lost no time in going to Therese when once the doctor had quitted the house; madame led the way of course, but she was a little changed to Therese, as the latter saw at once. Hitherto she had been almost cringing in her manner, now she had the air of one who permits herself to be persuaded against her better judgment. She was a woman of about fifty, with a sharp, puckered face, a nose pinched and slightly hooked, a long upper lip, black hair strained tightly backwards, and hands which were long, lean, covetous-looking. Some people's hands take you into their owner's secrets, before their faces have let out any thing. Mme. Roulleau's were of this kind. You might notice a stretching, a little involuntary curve of the fingers' ends, as if they longed to be grasping something. It struck Therese again as she stood before her in the middle of the room in a kind of linen jacket, drawn in round the waist, and the girl hardly understood at first that M. Roulleau was speaking, she could not help watching madame's hands with a sort of fascination. M. Roulleau coughed and spoke a little louder. "Our excellent friend, Monsieur Deshoulieres, has made a proposal, mademoiselle, I had the pleasure to observe, which would relieve him, he says, from an embarrassment. Without doubt he has confided it to you. Now, madame and I could receive no pleasure so profound, so grateful to our hearts," continued the little man, becoming suddenly enthusiastic, "as that we should experience by assisting our excellent doctor to the very extent of our means; but--" "This is impossible," said madame, sharply. "_Mon amie_!" remonstrated the notary, with an appealing gesture. "Impossible!" reiterated Mme. Roulleau. "I know you, Ignace; you are as weak as an infant over your ideas of friendship; but I am a mother. I think of my Adolphe, of my Octavie, defenceless little ones! I cannot consent to burden our family with another load. Mademoiselle must seek a home elsewhere." Therese started like a guilty thing. Up before her rose the grim walls of the convent, Fabien seeking her outside, she shut in, separated, unconscious of his neighbourhood. Peace might be there--repose; her untrained heart cried out passionately for other things. "There is the convent," said madame, watching her. She had heard from M. Deshoulieres how his suggestion had been received. "Let me stay here. Do not send me away," said poor Therese, with imploring eyes. "It is not my heart," answered madame, trying to be pathetic; "it is the cost, the extras we must provide." "I can live upon so little," urged the girl, turning towards the little notary.