"Michael, defend your son!"

The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with a start.

"My son!" stammered he; "what son?"

His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed over
his features.

"Robert," resumed he; "it is Robert!"

He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, but
he tottered. The nurse approached him in a rage.

"My money, or I shall take the child away!" cried she. "It is I who
have fed and brought it up: if you don't pay me for what has made it
live, it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I shall not go
until I have my due, or the baby."

"And what would you do with him?" murmured Genevieve, pressing Robert
against her bosom.

"Take it to the Foundling!" replied the countrywoman, harshly; "the
hospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food of its
little ones."

At the word "Foundling," Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror. With
her arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, and her
two hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall, and remained
with her back against it, like a lioness defending her young. The