Genevieve did not answer:  he went round the counter, opened the till, and began to rummage in it.

“You see where the money of the house goes!” observed the neighbor to the countrywoman; “how can the poor unhappy woman pay you when he takes all?”

“Is that my fault?” replied the nurse, angrily.  “They owe to me, and somehow or other they must pay me!”

And letting loose her tongue, as these women out of the country do, she began relating at length all the care she had taken of the child, and all the expense it had been to her.  In proportion as she recalled all she had done, her words seemed to convince her more than ever of her rights, and to increase her anger.  The poor mother, who no doubt feared that her violence would frighten the child, returned into the back shop, and put it into its cradle.

Whether it is that the countrywoman saw in this act a determination to escape her claims, or that she was blinded by passion, I cannot say; but she rushed into the next room, where I heard the sounds of quarrelling, with which the cries of the child were soon mingled.  The joiner, who was still rummaging in the till, was startled, and raised his head.

At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in her arms the baby that the countrywoman was trying to tear from her.  She ran toward the counter, and throwing herself behind her husband, cried: 

“Michael, defend your son!”

The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with a start.

“My son!” stammered he; “what son?”

His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed over his features.

“Robert,” resumed he; “it is Robert!”

He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, but he tottered.  The nurse approached him in a rage.

“My money, or I shall take the child away!” cried she.  “It is I who have fed and brought it up:  if you don’t pay me for what has made it live, it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead.  I shall not go until I have my due, or the baby.”

“And what would you do with him?” murmured Genevieve, pressing Robert against her bosom.

“Take it to the Foundling!” replied the countrywoman, harshly; “the hospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food of its little ones.”

At the word “Foundling,” Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror.  With her arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, and her two hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall, and remained with her back against it, like a lioness defending her young.  The neighbor and I contemplated this scene, without knowing how we could interfere.  As for Michael, he looked at us by turns, making a visible effort to comprehend it all.  When his eye rested upon Genevieve and the child, it lit up with a gleam of pleasure; but when he turned toward us, he again became stupid and hesitating.