'That child will kill me one of these days,' she exclaimed. 'She doesn't know what to invent to alarm me. I'm sure that she threw herself down on purpose. I can't endure it any longer. I shall shut myself up in my own room, or go out in the morning and not return till evening. Yes, you may laugh, you great goose! To think that I am the mother of such a ninny! You are making me pay for it very dearly!'
'Yes, that she is!' cried Rose, who had run down from the kitchen; 'she's a great burden, and, unfortunately, there's no chance of our ever being able to get her married.'
Mouret looked at them and listened with a pang at the heart. He said nothing, but stayed with the girl at the bottom of the garden, and there they remained chatting affectionately till nightfall. The next day, Marthe and Rose were away from the house the whole morning. They went to hear mass at a chapel, a league from Plassans, dedicated to Saint-Januarius, whither all the pious folks of the town made a pilgrimage on that particular day. When they returned, the cook hastily served up a cold lunch. Marthe went on eating for a few minutes before she noticed that her daughter was not at table.
'Isn't Désirée hungry?' she asked. 'Why hasn't she come to lunch?'
'Désirée is no longer here,' answered Mouret, who left his food almost untouched upon his plate; 'I took her this morning to her nurse at Saint-Eutrope.'
Marthe laid down her fork, and turned a little pale, seeming both surprised and hurt.
'You might have consulted me,' she said.
Her husband, without making any direct reply, continued:
'She is all right with her nurse. The good woman is very fond of her, and will look well after her, and the child will no longer be in your way, and everyone will be happy.'
Then, as his wife said nothing, he added: