He was hesitating what to do when the mistress came and offered him a situation in her firm as junior partner; it was a golden bridge that she placed before him.  With his exceptional capacities he was not long in giving to the house a new impulse.  He perfected the machinery, and triumphantly defied all competition.  All this was a happy dream in which Pierre was to her a real son; her home became his, and she monopolized him completely.  But suddenly a shadow came o’er the spirit of her dreams.  Pierre’s mother, the little haberdasher, proud of her son, would she consent to give him up to a stranger?  Oh! if Pierre had only been an orphan!  But one could not rob a mother of her son!  And Madame Desvarennes stopped the flight of her imagination.  She followed Pierre with anxious looks; but she forbade herself to dispose of the youth:  he did not belong to her.

This woman, at the age of thirty-five, still young in heart, was disturbed by feelings which she strove, but vainly, to rule.  She hid them especially from her husband, whose repining chattering she feared.  If she had once shown him her weakness he would have overwhelmed her daily with the burden of his regrets.  But an unforeseen circumstance placed her at Michel’s mercy.

Winter had come, bringing December and its snow.  The weather this year was exceptionally inclement, and traffic in the streets was so difficult, business was almost suspended.  The mistress left her deserted offices and retired early to her private apartments.  The husband and wife spent their evenings alone.  They sat there, facing each other, at the fireside.  A shade concentrated the light of the lamp upon the table covered with expensive knick-knacks.  The ceiling was sometimes vaguely lighted up by a glimmer from the stove which glittered on the gilt cornices.  Ensconced in deep comfortable armchairs, the pair respectively caressed their favorite dream without speaking of it.

Madame Desvarennes saw beside her a little pink-and-white baby girl, toddling on the carpet.  She heard her words, understood her language, untranslatable to all others than a mother.  Then bedtime came.  The child, with heavy eyelids, let her little fair-haired head fall on her shoulders.  Madame Desvarennes took her in her arms and undressed her quietly, kissing her bare and dimpled arms.  It was exquisite enjoyment which stirred her heart deliciously.  She saw the cradle, and devoured the child with her eyes.  She knew that the picture was a myth.  But what did it matter to her?  She was happy.  Michel’s voice broke on her reverie.

“Wife,” said he, “this is Christmas Eve; and as there are only us two, suppose you put your slipper on the hearth.”

Madame Desvarennes rose.  Her eyes vaguely turned toward the hearth on which the fire was dying, and beside the upright of the large sculptured mantelpiece she beheld for a moment a tiny shoe, belonging to the child which she loved to see in her dreams.  Then the vision vanished, and there was nothing left but the lonely hearth.  A sharp pain tore her swollen heart; a sob rose to her lips, and, slowly, two tears rolled down her cheeks.  Michel, quite pale, looked at her in silence; he held out his hand to her, and said, in a trembling voice: