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er. A mother forgets all she has suffered at the birth of her child so quickly--why should I not forget those horrors to-day too? Do look"--and she stroked little Jean-Pierre's warm rosy cheek carefully and caressingly as he slept--"how innocent, how lovely. I am so happy. Come, do be happy too, Paul, you are generally so very kind. And now let's think about what we are to call the boy"--her voice was very tender--"our boy." They no longer heard the wind that had increased to a storm by now. They had so much to consider. "Jean-Pierre," no, that name should not be kept in any case. And they would go from Spa to Cologne that evening, as they would not dare to engage a nurse before they were there; not a single person there would have any idea about the Venn, of course. And they would also buy all the things they required for the child in Cologne as soon as possible. How were they to get on until then? Paul looked at his wife quite anxiously: she knew nothing whatever about little children. But she laughed at him and gave herself airs: when Providence gives you something to do, it also gives you the necessary understanding. And this little darling was so good, he had not uttered a sound since they left. He had slept the whole time as though there was nothing called hunger or thirst, as though there was nothing but her heart on which he felt quite at ease. It gradually became more comfortable in the carriage. It seemed as though a beneficial warmth streamed forth from the child's body, as it rested there so quietly. The breath of life ascended from its strong little chest that rose and fell so regularly; the joy of life glowed in its cheeks that were growing redder and redder; the blessings of life dropped from those tiny hands that it had clenched in its sleep. The woman mused in silence and with bated breath as she gazed at the child in her lap, and the man, who felt strangely moved, took its tiny fist in his large hand and examined it, smiling. Yes, now they were parents. But outside the carriage the air was full of horrors. It is only in the wild Venn that there can be such storms in autumn. Summer does not depart gently and sadly there, winter does not approach with soft, stealthy steps, there is no mild preparatory transition. The bad weather sets in noisily there, and the warmth of summer changes suddenly into the icy cold of winter. The storm whistles so fiercely across the brown plateau that the low heath
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