“I must hug them!  Oh, how I should like to have one of them—­that one there—­the little tiny one!”

Springing down from the carriage, she ran toward the children, took one of the two youngest—­a Tuvache child—­and lifting it up in her arms, she kissed him passionately on his dirty cheeks, on his tousled hair daubed with earth, and on his little hands, with which he fought vigorously, to get away from the caresses which displeased him.

Then she got into the carriage again, and drove off at a lively trot.  But she returned the following week, and seating herself on the ground, took the youngster in her arms, stuffed him with cakes; gave candies to all the others, and played with them like a young girl, while the husband waited patiently in the carriage.

She returned again; made the acquaintance of the parents, and reappeared every day with her pockets full of dainties and pennies.

Her name was Madame Henri d’Hubieres.

One morning, on arriving, her husband alighted with her, and without stopping to talk to the children, who now knew her well, she entered the farmer’s cottage.

They were busy chopping wood for the fire.  They rose to their feet in surprise, brought forward chairs, and waited expectantly.

Then the woman, in a broken, trembling voice, began: 

“My good people, I have come to see you, because I should like—­I should like to take—­your little boy with me—­”

The country people, too bewildered to think, did not answer.

She recovered her breath, and continued:  “We are alone, my husband and I. We would keep it.  Are you willing?”

The peasant woman began to understand.  She asked: 

“You want to take Charlot from us?  Oh, no, indeed!”

Then M. d’Hubieres intervened: 

“My wife has not made her meaning clear.  We wish to adopt him, but he will come back to see you.  If he turns out well, as there is every reason to expect, he will be our heir.  If we, perchance, should have children, he will share equally with them; but if he should not reward our care, we should give him, when he comes of age, a sum of twenty thousand francs, which shall be deposited immediately in his name, with a lawyer.  As we have thought also of you, we should pay you, until your death, a pension of one hundred francs a month.  Do you understand me?”

The woman had arisen, furious.

“You want me to sell you Charlot?  Oh, no, that’s not the sort of thing to ask of a mother!  Oh, no!  That would be an abomination!”

The man, grave and deliberate, said nothing; but approved of what his wife said by a continued nodding of his head.

Madame d’Hubieres, in dismay, began to weep; turning to her husband, with a voice full of tears, the voice of a child used to having all its wishes gratified, she stammered: 

“They will not do it, Henri, they will not do it.”