s avowal, all this
was ended, lost forever! There was a blemish upon their life of duty and
poverty, upon their irreproachable past, even upon the father's memory.
Certainly the mother and elder sister excused the poor creature who
sobbed under their kisses and begged their pardon. However, when they
gazed at each other with red eyes and dry lips, they measured the fall of
the family; they saw for the first time how frightful were their
destitution and distress; they felt the unbearable feeling of shame glide
into their hearts like a sinister and unexpected guest who, at the first
glance, makes one understand that he has come to be master of the
lodging. This was the secret, the overwhelming secret, which the
distracted Louise Gerard revealed that evening to her only friend, Amedee
Violette, acting thus by instinct, as a woman with too heavy a burden
throws it to the ground, crying for help.

When she had ended her cruel confidence, to which the poet listened with
his face buried in his hands, and he uncovered his face creased and
furrowed by the sudden wrinkles of despair, Louise was frightened.

"How I have wounded him!" she thought. "How he loves Maria!"

But she saw shining in the young man's eyes a gloomy resolution.

"Very well, Louise," muttered he, between his teeth. "Do not tell me any
more, I beg of you. I do not know where to find Maurice at this hour, but
he will see me to-morrow morning, rest easy. If the evil is not
repaired--and at once!"

He did not finish; his voice was stifled with grief and rage, and upon an
almost imperious gesture to leave, Louise departed, overcome by her
undertaking.

No, Maurice Roger was not a villain. After Maria's departure he felt
ashamed and displeased with himself. A mother! poor little thing!
Certainly he would take charge of her and the child; he would behave like
a gentleman. But, to speak plainly, he did not now love her as much as he
did. His vagabond nature was already tired of his love-affair. This one
was watered too much by tears. Bah! he was usually lucky, and this
troublesome affair would come out all right like the others. Truly, it
was as bad an accident as if one had fallen into a hole and broken his
leg. But then, who could tell? Chance and time arrange many things. The
child might not live, perhaps; at any rate, it was perfectly natural that
he should wait and see what happened.

The next morning the reckless Maurice--who had not slept badly--was
tra