you see, is to leave your family and come and live with me. At first we
will go away from Paris; you can be confined in the country. We can put
the child out to nurse; they will take care of the little brat, of
course. And later, perhaps, my mother will soften and will understand
that we must marry. No, truly, the more I think of it, the more I
believe that that is the best way to do. Yes! I know very well it will
be hard to leave your home, but what can you do, my darling? You can
write your mother a very affectionate letter."

And going to her he takes her, inert and heartbroken, into his arms, and
tries to show himself loving.

"You are my wife, my dear little wife, I repeat it. Are you not glad,
eh! that we can live together?"

This is what he proposes to do. He thinks to take her publicly to his
house and to blazon her shame before the eyes of everybody! Maria feels
that she is lost. She rises abruptly and says to him in the tone of a
somnambulist: "That will do. We will talk of it again."

She goes away and returns to Montmartre at a crazy woman's pace, and
finds her mother knitting and her sister ready to lay the table-yes! as
if nothing at all was the matter. She takes their hands and falls at
their feet!

Ah, poor women!

They had already been very much tried. The decay of this worthy family
was lamentable; but in spite of all, yesterday even, they endured their
fate with resignation. Yes! the economy, the degrading drudgery, the