"And one would say that the poor beast knew what burden she was bearing, she walks with so much precaution.
"But now it is supper time: your eldest, while the cattle were grazing, has amused himself in filling a basket for you with wild strawberries, which he has brought covered with violets."
"Strawberries and violets—oh! that must be a balm. But where the mischief do you get such ideas, La Goualeuse?"
"In the woods, where the strawberries ripen, where the violets bloom; it is only to look and collect, Madame Martial. But let us speak of the housekeeping: it is night, you must milk your cows, prepare the supper under the arbor, for you hear your husband's dogs bark, and soon the voice of their master, who, tired as he is, comes home singing. And why should he not sing, when, on a fine summer evening, with a contented mind, he regains his house, where a good wife and fine children await him?"
"True, one could not do otherwise than sing," said La Louve, becoming more and more thoughtful.
"At least, if one does not weep from joy," continued Fleur-de-Marie, herself affected. "And such tears are as sweet as songs. And then, when night has closed in, what happiness to remain under the arbor, to enjoy the serenity of a fine evening; to breathe the perfume of the forest; to hear the children prattle; to look at the stars! Then the heart is so full that it must be relieved by prayer. How not thank Him to whom one owes the freshness of the night, the perfume of the woods, the sweet light of the starry heavens? After these thanks or this prayer, you go to sleep peacefully until the morning, and then again you thank the Creator; for this poor, industrious, but calm and honest life, is that of every day."
"Of every day!" repeated La Louve, her head on her bosom, her eyes fixed, her breathing oppressed; "for it is true, God is good to give us the power to live happy on so little."
"Well, now, say," continued Fleur-de-Marie, gently, "say, ought he not be blessed and thanked next to Heaven, who would give you this peaceful and industrious life, instead of the miserable one you lead in the mud in the streets of Paris?"
The word "Paris" called La Louve to the reality.
A strange phenomenon had just been occurring in the mind, the soul of this creature. A natural picture of an humble working life, a simple recital, now lighted up by the soft glimmerings of a domestic fireside, gilded by some joyous rays of the sun, refreshed by the gentle winds of the forest, or perfumed by the odor of wild flowers, had made on La Louve an impression more profound, more striking, than all the exhortations of transcendent morality could have effected. Yes, as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La Louve had yearned to be an indefatigable housekeeper, an honest wife, a pious and devoted mother. To inspire, even for a moment, a violent, immoral, degraded woman, with a love of family, the respect of duty, the desire to labor, gratitude toward the Creator, and that by promising her merely what God gives to all, the sun of Heaven and the shade of the forest, what man owes to the sweat of his brow, bread and shelter—was it not a triumph for Fleur-de-Marie? Would the moralist the most severe, the preacher the most fulminating, have obtained more by their menacing threats of every vengeance, human and Divine?