an who seemed
incapable of becoming a mother, who lowered herself to the part of a
lawful mistress, and who was not faithful to him.

Alas! To awake from such a dream, to say to himself that he was reduced
to envying the good fortune of others, that he should never cover a
little, curly, smiling head with kisses, where some striking likeness,
some undecided gleams of growing intellect fill a man with joy, but that
he would be obliged to take the remainder of his journey in solitude,
heart-broken, with nothing but old age around him; that no branch would
again spring from the family tree, and that on his death-bed he should
not have that last consolation of pressing his dear ones, for whom he
struggled and made so many sacrifices, in his failing arms, and who were
sobbing with grief, but that soon he should be the prey of indifferent
and greedy heirs, who were discounting his approaching death like some
valuable security!

George had not told Suzanne the feelings which were tormenting him, and
took care that she should not see his state of unhappiness, and he did
not worry her with trying questions, that only end in some violent and
distressing scene.

But she was too much of a woman, and she loved her husband too much, not
to guess what was making him so gloomy, and was imperiling their love.

And every month there came a fresh disappointment, and hope was again
deferred. She, however, persisted in believing that their wish would be
granted, and grew ill with this painful waiting, and refused to believe
that she should never be a mother.

She would have looked upon it as a humiliation either to consult a
medical man, or to make a pilgrimage to some shrine, like so many women
did, in their despair, and her proud, loyal and loving nature at last
rebelled against that hostility, which showed itself in the angry
outbursts, the painful silence, and the haughty coldness of the man who
could, however, have done anything he liked with her, by a little
kindness.

With death in her soul, she had a presentiment of the way of the cross,
which is an end of love, of all the bitterness, which sooner or later
would end in terrible quarrels, and in words which would put an
impassable barrier between them.

At last, one evening, when George d'Hardermes had lost his temper, had
wounded her by equivocal words and bad jokes, Suzanne, who was very
pale, and who was clutching the arms of her easy chair convulsively,
interrupted him w