"In the woods, where the strawberries ripen and the violets blow, you have only to look and gather them—But let us go on with our housekeeping. It is night, and you must milk your heifers, prepare your supper under the shelter of the vine, for you hear your husband's dogs bark, and then their master's voice, who, tired as he is, comes home singing,—and who could not sing when on a fine summer's eve with cheerful heart you return to the house where a good wife and five children are waiting for you?—eh, Madame Martial?"
"True, true; one could not but sing," replied La Louve, becoming more and more thoughtful.
"Unless one weeps for joy," continued Fleur-de-Marie, herself much touched, "and such tears are as sweet as songs. And then, when night has completely come, what a pleasure to sit in the arbour and enjoy the calmness of a fine evening, to breathe the sweet odour of the forest, to hear the prattle of the children, to look at the stars, then the heart is so full,—so full that it must pour out its prayer; it must thank him to whom we are indebted for the freshness of the evening, the sweet scent of the woods, the gentle brightness of the starry sky! After this thanksgiving or this prayer, we go to sleep tranquilly till the next day, and then again thank our Creator. And this poor, hard-working, but calm and honest life, is the same each and every day."
"Every day!" repeated La Louve, with her head drooping on her chest, her look fixed, her breast oppressed, "for it is true the good God is good to give us wherewithal to live upon, and to make us happy with so little."
"Well, tell me now," continued Fleur-de-Marie, gently,—"tell me, ought not he to be blessed, after God, who should give you this peaceable and laborious life, instead of the wretched existence you lead in the mud of the streets of Paris?"
This word Paris suddenly recalled La Louve to reality.
A strange phenomenon had taken place in the mind of this creature.
The simple painting of a humble and rude condition—the mere recital by turns—lighted up by the soft rays from the domestic hearth, gilded by some joyful sunbeams, refreshed by the breeze of the great woods, or perfumed by the odour of wild flowers,—this narrative had made on La Louve a more profound or more sensible impression than could an exhortation of the most pious morality have effected.
In truth, in proportion as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La Louve had longed to be, and meant to be, an indefatigable manager, a worthy wife, an affectionate and devoted mother.
To inspire, even for an instant, a violent, immoral, and degraded woman with a love of home, respect for duty, a taste for labour, and gratitude towards her Creator; and that, by only promising her what God gives to all, the sun, the sky, and the depths of the forest,—what society owes to those who lack a roof and a loaf,—was, indeed, a glorious triumph for Fleur-de-Marie! Could the most severe moralist—the most overpowering preacher—have obtained more in threatening, in their monotonous and menacing orations, all human vengeances—all divine thunders?