leuse, is it true? I should call myself Madame
Martial," said La Louve, with a sort of pride,--"Madame Martial!"

"Which is better than being called La Louve,--is it not?"

"_Pardieu!_ Why, there's no doubt but I should rather be called by my
man's name than the name of a wild beast; but--bah!--bah! _louve_ I was
born, _louve_ I shall die!"

"Who knows? Who can say? Not to shrink from a life that is hard, but
honest, will ensure success. So, then, work would not frighten you?"

"Oh, certainly not! It is not a husband and four or five brats to take
care of that would give me any trouble!"

"But then it would not be all work; there are moments for rest. In the
winter evenings, when the children were put to bed, and your husband
smoked his pipe whilst he was cleaning his gun or caressing his dogs,
you would have a little leisure."

"Leisure,--sit with my arms crossed before me! _Ma foi!_ No, I would
rather mend the linen, by the side of the fire in the evening. That is
not a very hard job, and in winter the days are so short."

As Fleur-de-Marie proceeded, La Louve forgot more and more of the
present for the dreams of the future, as deeply interested as La
Goualeuse had been before her, when Rodolph had talked to her of the
rustic delights of the Bouqueval farm. La Louve did not attempt to
conceal the wild tastes with which her lover had inspired her.
Remembering the deep and wholesome impression which she had experienced
from the smiling picture of Rodolph in relation to a country life,
Fleur-de-Marie was desirous of trying the same means of action on La
Louve, thinking, with reason, that, if her companion was so far affected
at the sketch of a rude, poor, and solitary life, as to desire ardently
such an existence, she merited interest and pity. Delighted to see her
companion listen to her with attention, La Goualeuse continued, smiling:

"And then you see, Madame Martial,--let me call you so,--what does it
matter--"

"Quite the contrary; it flatters me." Then La Louve shrugged her
shoulders, and, smiling, also added, "What folly to play at madame! Are
we children? Well, it's all the same; go on,--it's quite amusing. You
said--"

"I was saying, Madame Martial, that in speaking of your life, the winter
in the thickest of the woods, we were only alluding to the worst of the
seasons."

"_Ma foi!_ No, that is not the worst. To hear the wind whistle all night
in the forest, and the wolves howl from time to time fa