And Garain still shivered at the thought of his former colleague.

Therese rose. Senator Loyer offered his arm to her, with the graceful
attitude that he had learned forty years before at Bullier's dancing-
hall. She left the politicians in the drawing-room, and hastened to meet
Dechartre.

A rosy mist covered the Seine, the stone quays, and the gilded trees.
The red sun threw into the cloudy sky the last glories of the year.
Therese, as she went out, relished the sharpness of the air and the dying
splendor of the day. Since her return to Paris, happy, she found
pleasure every morning in the changes of the weather. It seemed to her,
in her generous selfishness, that it was for her the wind blew in the
trees, or the fine, gray rain wet the horizon of the avenues; for her, so
that she might say, as she entered the little house of the Ternes, "It is
windy; it is raining; the weather is pleasant;" mingling thus the ocean
of things in the intimacy of her love. And every day was beautiful for
her, since each one brought her to the arms of her beloved.

While on her way that day to the little house of the Ternes she thought
of her unexpected happiness, so full and so secure. She walked in the
last glory of the sun already touched by winter, and said to herself:

"He loves me; I believe he loves me entirely. To love is easier and more
natural for him than for other men. They have in life ideas they think
superior to love--faith, habits, interests. They believe in God, or in
duties, or in themselves. He believes in me only. I am his God, his
duty, and his life."