But a supreme blow was to fall on Constance and fill her with horror of her husband.  Some anonymous letters, the low, treacherous revenge of a dismissed servant, apprised her of Beauchene’s former intrigue with Norine, that work-girl who had given birth to a boy, spirited away none knew whither.  Though ten years had elapsed since that occurrence, Constance could not think of it without a feeling of revolt.  Whither had that child been sent?  Was he still alive?  What ignominious existence was he leading?  She was vaguely jealous of the boy.  The thought that her husband had two sons and she but one was painful to her, now that all her motherly nature was aroused.  But she devoted herself yet more ardently to her fondly loved Maurice; she made a demi-god of him, and for his sake even sacrificed her just rancor.  She indeed came to the conclusion that he must not suffer from his father’s indignity, and so it was for him that, with extraordinary strength of will, she ever preserved a proud demeanor, feigning that she was ignorant of everything, never addressing a reproach to her husband, but remaining, in the presence of others, the same respectful wife as formerly.  And even when they were alone together she kept silence and avoided explanations and quarrels.  Never even thinking of the possibility of revenge, she seemed, in the presence of her husband’s profligacy, to attach herself more firmly to her home, clinging to her son, and protected by him from thought of evil as much as by her own sternness of heart and principles.  And thus sorely wounded, full of repugnance but hiding her contempt, she awaited the triumph of that son who would purify and save the house, feeling the greatest faith in his strength, and quite surprised and anxious whenever, all at once, without reasonable cause, a little quiver from the unknown brought her a chill, affecting her heart as with remorse for some long-past fault which she no longer remembered.

That little quiver came back while she listened to all that Madame Angelin confided to her.  And at last she became quite interested in her friend’s case, and offered to accompany her some day when she might be calling on Madame Bourdieu.  In the end they arranged to meet one Thursday afternoon for the purpose of going together to the Rue de Miromesnil.

As it happened, that same Thursday, about two o’clock, Mathieu, who had come to Paris to see about a threshing-machine at Beauchene’s works, was quietly walking along the Rue La Boetie when he met Cecile Moineaud, who was carrying a little parcel carefully tied round with string.  She was now nearly twenty-one, but had remained slim, pale, and weak, since passing through the hands of Dr. Gaude.  Mathieu had taken a great liking to her during the few months she had spent as a servant at Chantebled; and later, knowing what had befallen her at the hospital, he had regarded her with deep compassion.  He had busied himself to find her easy work, and a friend of his had given