to arrange it.”  The truth is, that now he begins to be perplexed at the idea of this marriage.  It is his duty, he knows that very well; but he is not twenty three years old yet.  There is no hurry.  After all, is it duty? the little one yielded easily enough.  Has he not the right to test her and wait a little?  It is what his mother would advise him, he is certain.  That is the only reasonable way to look at it.

Alas, egotists and cowards always have a reason for everything!

How dearly poor Maria’s foolish step has cost her!  How heavily such a secret weighs upon the child’s heart!  For a few moments of uneasy intoxication with this man, whom she already doubts and who sometimes makes her afraid, she must lie to her mother without blushing or lowering her eyes, and enter Maurice’s house veiled and hiding like a thief.  But that is nothing yet.  After some time of this agonizing life her health is troubled.  Quickly she goes to find Maurice!  She arrives unexpectedly and finds him lying upon the sofa smoking a cigar.  Without giving him time to rise, she throws herself into his arms, and, bursting into sobs, makes her terrible avowal.  At first he only gives a start of angry astonishment, a harsh glance.

“Bah! you must be mistaken.”

“I am sure of it, I tell you, I am sure of it!”

She has caught his angry glance and feels condemned in advance.  However, he gives her a cold kiss, and it is with a great effort that she stammers: 

“Maurice—­you must—­speak to your mother—­”

He rises with an impatient gesture and Maria seats herself—­her strength is leaving her—­while he walks up and down the room.

“My poor Maria,” he begins in a hesitating manner, “I dared not tell you, but my mother will not consent to our marriage—­now, at least.”

He lies!  He has not spoken to his mother; she knows it.  Ah! unhappy creature! he does not love her! and, discouraged, with a rumbling noise in her ears, she listens to Maurice as he speaks in his soft voice.

“Oh! be tranquil.  I shall not abandon you, my poor child.  If what you say is true-if you are sure of it, then the best thing that you can do, you see, is to leave your family and come and live with me.  At first we will go away from Paris; you can be confined in the country.  We can put the child out to nurse; they will take care of the little brat, of course.  And later, perhaps, my mother will soften and will understand that we must marry.  No, truly, the more I think of it, the more I believe that that is the best way to do.  Yes!  I know very well it will be hard to leave your home, but what can you do, my darling?  You can write your mother a very affectionate letter.”

And going to her he takes her, inert and heartbroken, into his arms, and tries to show himself loving.

“You are my wife, my dear little wife, I repeat it.  Are you not glad, eh! that we can live together?”