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 child,
with heavy eyelids, let her little fair-haired head fall on her
shoulders. Madame Desvarennes took her in her arms and undressed her
quietly, kissing her bare and dimpled arms. It was exquisite enjoyment
which stirred her heart deliciously. She saw the cradle, and devoured the