at once. That for which they pleaded, that
for which they hoped, was for another infant, a child of pardon, the
only sign which would assure them that at last they themselves had been
forgiven. But all was in vain. The cold, hard mother was deaf to all
their entreaties, and left them under the inexorable punishment of the
death of their firstborn, whom she had taken and carried away, and whom
she refused to restore to them.

"I prayed there for a long time," repeated Hubertine. "I listened
eagerly to know if there would not be some slight movement."

Hubert questioned her with an anxious look.

"But there was nothing--no! no sound came up to me from the earth, and
within me there was no feeling of relief. Ah! yes, it is useless to hope
any longer. It is too late. We brought about our own unhappiness."

Then, trembling, he asked:

"Do you accuse me of it?"

"Yes, you are to blame, and I also did wrong in following you. We
disobeyed in the beginning, and all our life has been spoiled in
consequence of that one false step."

"But are you not happy?"

"No, I am not happy. A woman who has no child can never be happy. To
love merely is not enough. That love must be crowned and blest."

He had fallen into a chair, faint and overcome, as tears came to his
eyes. Never before had she reproached him for the ever-open wound which
marred their lives, and she who always after having grieved him by
an involuntary allusion to the past had quickly recovered herself and
consoled him, this time let him suffer, looking at him as she stood
near, but making no sign, taking no step towards him. He wept bitterly,
exclaiming in the midst of his tears:

"Ah! the dear child upstairs--it is she you condemn. You are not willing
that Felicien should marry her, as I married you, and that she should
suffer as you have done."

She answered simply by a look: a clear, affectionate glance, in which he
read the strength and simplicity of her heart.

"But you said yourself, my dear, that our sweet daughter would die of
grief if matters were not changed. Do you, then, wish for her death?"

"Yes. Her death now would be preferable to an unhappy life."

He left his seat, and clasped her in his arms as they both sobbed
bitterly. For some minutes they embraced each other. Then he conquered
himself, and she in her turn was obliged to lean upon his shoulder, that
he might comfort her and renew her courage. They were indeed distressed,
but were firm