old, mended gowns--they accepted all this without a murmur. A noble
sentiment sustained and gave them courage. All three--the old mother in
a linen cap doing the cooking and the washing, the elder sister giving
lessons at forty sous, and the little one working in pastels--were
vaguely conscious of representing something very humble, but sacred and
noble--a family without a blemish on their name. They felt that they
moved in an atmosphere of esteem and respect. "Those ladies upon the
first floor have so many accomplishments," say the neighbors. Their
apartment--with its stained woodwork, its torn wall, paper, but where
they were all united in work and drawn closer and closer to each other in
love--had still the sweetness of a home; and upon their ragged mourning,
their dilapidated furniture, the meagre meat soup at night, the pure
light of honor gleamed and watched over them. Now, after this guilty
child's avowal, all this was ended, lost forever! There was a blemish
upon their life of duty and poverty, upon their irreproachable past, even
upon the father's memory. Certainly the mother and elder sister excused
the poor creature who sobbed under their kisses and begged their pardon.
However, when they gazed at each other with red eyes and dry lips, they
measured the fall of the family; they saw for the first time how
frightful were their destitution and distress; they felt the unbearable
feeling of shame glide into their hearts like a sinister and unexpected
guest who, at the first glance, makes one understand that he has come to
be master of the lodging. This was the secret, the overwhelming secret,
which the distracted Louise Gerard revealed that evening to her only
friend, Amedee Violette, acting thus by instinct, as a woman with too
heavy a burden throws it to the ground, crying for help.

When she had ended her cruel confidence, to which the poet listened with
his face buried in his hands, and he uncovered his face creased and
furrowed by the sudden wrinkles of despair, Louise was frightened.