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'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.
Th