Pierre was to her a real son; her home became his, and she monopolized
him completely. But suddenly a shadow came o'er the spirit of her
dreams. Pierre's mother, the little haberdasher, proud of her son, would
she consent to give him up to a stranger? Oh! if Pierre had only been an
orphan! But one could not rob a mother of her son! And Madame
Desvarennes stopped the flight of her imagination. She followed Pierre
with anxious looks; but she forbade herself to dispose of the youth: he
did not belong to her.

This woman, at the age of thirty-five, still young in heart, was
disturbed by feelings which she strove, but vainly, to rule. She hid
them especially from her husband, whose repining chattering she feared.
If she had once shown him her weakness he would have overwhelmed her
daily with the burden of his regrets. But an unforeseen circumstance
placed her at Michel's mercy.

Winter had come, bringing December and its snow. The weather this year
was exceptionally inclement, and traffic in the streets was so difficult,
business was almost suspended. The mistress left her deserted offices
and retired early to her private apartments. The husband and wife spent
their evenings alone. They sat there, facing each other, at the
fireside. A shade concentrated the light of the lamp upon the table
covered with expensive knick-knacks. The ceiling was sometimes vaguely
lighted up by a glimmer from the stove which glittered on the gilt
cornices. Ensconced in deep comfortable armchairs, the pair respectively
caressed their favorite dream without speaking of it.

Madame Desvarennes saw beside her a little pink-and-white baby girl,
toddling on the carpet. She heard her words, understood her language,
untranslatable to all others than a mother. Then bedtime came. The