One morning the postman brought her a letter, and as she had never received one in her life before she was so upset by it that she was obliged to sit down.  Perhaps it was from him?  But, as she could not read, she sat anxious and trembling with that piece of paper, covered with ink, in her hand.  After a time, however, she put it into her pocket, as she did not venture to confide her secret to any one.  She often stopped in her work to look at those lines written at regular intervals, and which terminated in a signature, imagining vaguely that she would suddenly discover their meaning, until at last, as she felt half mad with impatience and anxiety, she went to the schoolmaster, who told her to sit down and read to her as follows: 

“My dear daughter:  I write to tell you that I am very ill.  Our neighbor, Monsieur Dentu, begs you to come, if you can.

“From your affectionate mother,
                  “Cesaire Dentu, Deputy Mayor.”

She did not say a word and went away, but as soon as she was alone her legs gave way under her, and she fell down by the roadside and remained there till night.

When she got back, she told the farmer her bad news, and he allowed her to go home for as long as she liked, and promised to have her work done by a charwoman and to take her back when she returned.

Her mother died soon after she got there, and the next day Rose gave birth to a seven-months child, a miserable little skeleton, thin enough to make anybody shudder, and which seemed to be suffering continually, to judge from the painful manner in which it moved its poor little hands, which were as thin as a crab’s legs; but it lived for all that.  She said she was married, but could not be burdened with the child, so she left it with some neighbors, who promised to take great care of it, and she went back to the farm.

But now in her heart, which had been wounded so long, there arose something like brightness, an unknown love for that frail little creature which she had left behind her, though there was fresh suffering in that very love, suffering which she felt every hour and every minute, because she was parted from her child.  What pained her most, however, was the mad longing to kiss it, to press it in her arms, to feel the warmth of its little body against her breast.  She could not sleep at night; she thought of it the whole day long, and in the evening, when her work was done, she would sit in front of the fire and gaze at it intently, as people do whose thoughts are far away.

They began to talk about her and to tease-her about her lover.  They asked her whether he was tall, handsome and rich.  When was the wedding to be and the christening?  And often she ran away to cry by herself, for these questions seemed to hurt her like the prick of a pin; and, in order to forget their jokes, she began to work still more energetically, and, still thinking of her child, she sought some way of saving up money for it, and determined to work so that her master would be obliged to raise her wages.