appearing on her skin. She had begun to fade after giving birth to two
daughters, one of whom was now nine and the other seven years of age.
Very proud and egotistical, she herself had begun to regret her marriage,
for she had formerly considered herself a real beauty, worthy of the
palaces and equipages of some Prince Charming. And at this moment she was
plunged in such despair, that her sister's sudden appearance on the scene
did not even astonish her: "Ah! it's you," she gasped. "Ah! if you only
knew what a blow's fallen on me in the middle of all our worries!"

Madame Theodore at once thought of the children, Lucienne and Marcelle.
"Are your daughters ill?" she asked.

"No, no, our neighbour has taken them for a walk on the Boulevard. But
the fact is, my dear, I'm /enceinte/, and when I told Chretiennot of it
after /dejeuner/, he flew into a most fearful passion, saying the most
dreadful, the most cruel things!"

Then she again sobbed. Gentle and indolent by nature, desirous of peace
and quietness before anything else, she was incapable of deceiving her
husband, as he well knew. But the trouble was that an addition to the
family would upset the whole economy of the household.

"/Mon Dieu/!" said Madame Theodore at last, "you brought up the others,
and you'll bring up this one too."

At this an explosion of anger dried the other's eyes; and she rose,
exclaiming: "You are good, you are! One can see that our purse isn't
yours. How are we to bring up another child when we can scarcely make
both ends meet as it is?"