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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hated Son, by Honore de Balzac This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Hated Son Author: Honore de Balzac Translator: Katharine Prescott Wormeley Release Date: September, 1998 [Etext #1455] Posting Date: February 25, 2010 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HATED SON *** Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny THE HATED SON By Honore De Balzac Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley DEDICATION To Madame la Baronne James Rothschild. THE HATED SON PART I. HOW THE MOTHER LIVED CHAPTER I. A BEDROOM OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY On a winter's night, about two in the morning, the Comtesse Jeanne d'Herouville felt such violent pains that in spite of her inexperience, she was conscious of an approaching confinement; and the instinct which makes us hope for ease in a change of posture induced her to sit up in her bed, either to study the nature of these new sufferings, or to reflect on her situation. She was a prey to cruel fears,--caused less by the dread of a first lying-in, which terrifies most women, than by certain dangers which awaited her child. In order not to awaken her husband who was sleeping beside her, the poor woman moved with precautions which her intense terror made as minute as those of a prisoner endeavoring to escape. Though the pains became more and more severe, she ceased to feel them, so completely did she concentrate her own strength on the painful effort of resting her two moist hands on the pillow and so turning her suffering body from a posture in which she could find no ease. At the slightest rustling of the huge green silk coverlet, under which she had slept but little since her marriage, she stopped as though she had rung a bell. Forced to watch the count, she divided her attention between the folds of the rustling stuff and a large swarthy face, the moustache of which was brushing her shoulder. When some noisier breath than usual left her husband's lips, she was filled with a sudden terror that revived the color driven from her cheeks by her double anguish.
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