you say
is true-if you are sure of it, then the best thing that you can do, you
see, is to leave your family and come and live with me. At first we will
go away from Paris; you can be confined in the country. We can put the
child out to nurse; they will take care of the little brat, of course.
And later, perhaps, my mother will soften and will understand that we
must marry. No, truly, the more I think of it, the more I believe that
that is the best way to do. Yes! I know very well it will be hard to
leave your home, but what can you do, my darling? You can write your
mother a very affectionate letter."

And going to her he takes her, inert and heartbroken, into his arms, and
tries to show himself loving.

"You are my wife, my dear little wife, I repeat it. Are you not glad, eh!
that we can live together?"

This is what he proposes to do. He thinks to take her publicly to his
house and to blazon her shame before the eyes of everybody! Maria feels
that she is lost. She rises abruptly and says to him in the tone of a
somnambulist: "That will do. We will talk of it again."

She goes away and returns to Montmartre at a crazy woman's pace, and
finds her mother knitting and her sister ready to lay the table-yes! as
if nothing at all was the matter. She takes their hands and falls at
their feet!

Ah, poor women!

They had already been very much tried. The decay of this worthy family
was lamentable; but in spite of all, yesterday even, they endured their
fate with resignation. Yes! the economy, the degrading drudgery, the old,
mended gowns--they accepted all this without a murmur. A noble sentiment
sustained and gave them courage. All three--the old mother in a linen cap
doing the cooking and the washing, the elder sister giving lessons at
forty sous, and the little one working in pastels--were vaguely conscious
of representing something very humble, but sacred and noble--a family
without a blemish on their name. They felt that they moved in an
atmosphere of esteem and respect. "Those ladies upon the first floor have
so many accomplishments," say the neighbors. Their apartment--with its
stained woodwork, its torn wall, paper, but where they were all united in
work and drawn closer and closer to each other in love--had still the
sweetness of a home; and upon their ragged mourning, their dilapidated
furniture, the meagre meat soup at night, the pure light of honor gleamed
and watched over them. Now, after this guilty child'