Night covered little by little with its gray clouds the mulberry-trees of the Dauphine.

Madame Marmet went to sleep peacefully, resting on herself as on a mass of pillows.

Therese looked at her and thought: "She is happy, since she likes to remember." The sadness of night penetrated her heart.

And when the moon rose on the fields of olive-trees, seeing the soft lines of plains and of hills pass, Therese, in this landscape wherein everything spoke of peace and oblivion, and nothing spoke of her, regretted the Seine, the Arc de Triomphe with its radiating avenues, and the alleys of the park where, at least, the trees and the stones knew her.
Suddenly Choulette threw himself into the carriage.

Armed with his knotty stick, his face and head enveloped in red wool and a fur cap, he almost frightened her.