Instead of a woollen gown she wore a silk one, but the color was still black; her language had not become refined; she retained the same blunt familiar accent, and at the end of five minutes’ conversation with any one of importance she could not resist calling him “my dear,” to come morally near him.  Her commands had more fulness.  In giving her orders, she had the manner of a commander-in-chief, and it was useless to haggle when she had spoken.  The best thing to do was to obey, as well and as promptly as possible.

Placed in a political sphere, this marvellously gifted woman would have been a Madame Roland; born to the throne, she would have been a Catherine II.; there was genius in her.  Sprung from the lower ranks, her superiority had given her wealth; had she come from the higher, the great mind might have governed the world.

Still she was not happy; she had been married fifteen years, and her fireside was devoid of a cradle.  During the first years she had rejoiced at not having a child.  Where could she have found time to occupy herself with a baby?  Business engrossed her attention; she had no leisure to amuse herself with trifles.  Maternity seemed to her a luxury for rich women; she had her fortune to make.  In the struggle against the difficulties attending the enterprise she had begun, she had not had time to look around her and perceive that her home was lonely.  She worked from morning till night.  Her whole life was absorbed in this work, and when night came, overcome with fatigue, she fell asleep, her head filled with cares which stifled all tricks of the imagination.

Michel grieved, but in silence; his feeble and dependent nature missed a child.  He, whose mind lacked occupation, thought of the future.  He said to himself that the day when the dreamt-of fortune came would be more welcome if there were an heir to whom to leave it.  What was the good of being rich, if the money went to collateral relatives?  There was his nephew Savinien, a disagreeable urchin whom he looked on with indifference; and he was biased regarding his brother, who had all but failed several times in business, and to whose aid he had come to save the honor of the name.  The mistress had not hesitated to help him, and had prevented the signature of “Desvarennes” being protested.  She had not taunted him, having as large a heart as she had a mind.  But Michel had felt humiliated to see his own folk make a gap in the financial edifice erected so laboriously by his wife.  Out of this had gradually sprung a sense of dissatisfaction with the Desvarennes of the other branch, which manifested itself by a marked coolness, when, by chance, his brother came to the house, accompanied by his son Savinien.

And then the paternity of his brother made him secretly jealous.  Why should that incapable fellow, who succeeded in nothing, have a son?  It was only those ne’er-do-well sort of people who were thus favored.  He, Michel, already called the rich Desvarennes, he had not a son.  Was it just?  But where is there justice in this world?