That little fact of seeing Thérèse alone among all those people, vexed him with the Roulleaus. He went there the next morning. Thérèse saw him on the stairs, and fled back, foolish child, to her room, with a cold fear in her heart of what he might be come to propose. She had remarked his displeasure of the day before, and who knew what might grow out of it? Madame Roulleau used to invent little speeches of M. Deshoulières, which poor Thérèse had no reason for disbelieving; she felt them hard,—cruel. Her heart resented this trampling out of the bright things of life which they told her he was trying to force upon her. She liked sunshine, flowers, love,—liked them, and wanted them for herself with an impatience that would not so much as endure the thought of life without them. One feels a compassion for such natures, knowing how hard the lessons of time must prove to them, and yet it may be that their very buoyancy helps them to float over the stormy waves. It was so with Thérèse at present. She felt more confident of Fabien’s love now than she had done when he was near her and talking about it; she never doubted that he would return; she could turn her dingy little room in Rue St. Servan into a veritable palace with her bright thoughts of the future. There was a little precious likeness of Fabien which she would take out and talk to whenever Madame Roulleau was more than usually tyrannical. With so much sunshine before her, she could bear any thing so long as that terrible guardian would leave her alone.
Downstairs the terrible guardian was expressing his opinion to Madame Roulleau; for little Roulleau kept out of the way on these occasions, and madame preferred it, since she was always afraid that his cowardice might betray them. M. Deshoulières was very grave, very determined: he had left all these minor things to be arranged by Madame Roulleau, he said; but she must quite understand that mademoiselle must have every thing that was right and convenable. As he spoke he looked round, and wondered if she were happy there. His own tastes were very plain, but he was not sure whether a young girl would not require something brighter than this barren abode; and madame, who watched him like a cat, read his looks without difficulty, and was very judicious in her answers. She did not say too much, but she implied that mademoiselle preferred the freedom and unconventionality of their family life to permitting changes to be made on her account. “She has had enough of luxury, monsieur,” she said. Thérèse upstairs, shivering and trembling over that convent fancy, did not know how these two were concerned with the web and woof of her life: madame, with her covetous hands turning and twisting it to suit her purpose; Max, with his great tender heart and his quick abrupt ways, wanting to protect the little solitary figure, whose solitariness and helplessness among the crowd the day before had touched him with pity. “Poor child!” he said softly in his heart. He was not quite sure of the value of madame’s professions. He made up his mind to question Thérèse herself at the first opportunity.
When he went away it was with the understanding that Thérèse should take no more solitary walks. Madame would have gladly escaped the concession, but it was not possible; and her busy thoughts went off at once to the question of how the affair could be managed, at least cost; or how it might be balanced by extracting further work from the girl. She went up to her with a gloomy depressed face which terrified Thérèse when she opened the door.
“Is there any news? What has he said?” she asked, quickly.
“This all comes from your imprudence in loitering at the market yesterday, mademoiselle. M. Deshoulières is highly displeased,—requests that we will provide an attendant for you. An attendant!” repeated madame, with a little hoot of scorn. “When my husband toils and toils, and I pinch and pinch; and then we are reproached because you do not walk about as if you were the daughter of M. le Préfet! I saw beforehand that it would not do. You must seek another domicile, mademoiselle.”
“You will send me away!” said poor Thérèse, turning pale. “But where can I go?”
Madame threw out her hands.
“That is for M. Deshoulières to decide. There is always the convent. You will be safe enough behind the grille,” she added, with a mocking laugh.
Thérèse was very ignorant, and had no idea what unlimited powers M. Deshoulières’ guardianship might not convey. The tears gathered in her eyes, she almost flung herself at madame’s feet.
“No, no, no, madame,” she implored, “do not send me away. I am not good enough for that life. I cannot give up Fabien. Do not send me away!”