But in a little while she found she had no time for dreaming. Things seemed to fell upon her as a matter of course. Mme. Roulleau would come in with a great heap of clothes in her arms, her own, Adolphe's, Octavie's, for mademoiselle to exercise her powers of _reparation_ upon. It was often very difficult to make out of them what madame expected; only Aladdin's magician with his new lamps for old could have satisfied her, and poor Therese darned and turned and patched, and patched and turned and darned, in despair: more than once before she had learned her lesson of economy, she cut up her own things in a vain attempt to perform the impossible. If she could only have pleased by her efforts she would not have disliked the work; she was active-minded, glad to be of use, there would have been a certain enjoyment in her own ingenuity. And if Mme. Roulleau was capable of being touched she must have been conscious of the sweetness with which Therese took her rebuffs, the patience with which she tried to follow out her directions. They were the only weapons the girl brought forward at this time. But to certain natures there is nothing so dear as the power of petty tyranny, and neither the money paid by M. Deshoulieres, nor the work she extracted from her, were so delightful to Madame Roulleau as the infliction of daily snubs upon Therese. Skilfully drawing out her desire to remain free and lead a secular life, skilfully playing upon her fears of a convent, imperceptibly strengthening her dread of M. Deshoulieres' decisions, far more swift than he to fathom the secret of the girl's heart and to turn it to their purpose, she did her best to make Therese's life a burden. And yet for a time, as I have said, Therese bore it all not only with patience but with cheerfulness. She hoped bravely, and this was the elixir which prevented her feeling madame's sting. It was not pleasant to be found fault with, but she said to herself that it all came from her own stupidity, her want of knowledge about useful things. After all, they were useful, and it was very good for her to be forced into them. She preached vigorous little lectures over her own reluctance and want of gratitude. Monsieur and madame were not charming, certainly, but they had been very generous and only demanded a return. In those days her step was buoyant, her colour bright, her grey eyes sparkling. Madame Roulleau used to look at her and say crossly to her husband,-- "She has had some news of that _vaurien_." The little notary used to get into a fever of alarm. "Zenobie," he would say, with his shrill voice quavering, "if he comes back we are ruined." "He must not come back," said madame, quietly.