"How annoying!" she thought at first, "But medicine has made much progress lately. I shall get rid of it when I want. Ah! that Walloon! He will have toiled in vain. Can Macarée bring up the son of a vagabond? No, no, I condemn this embryo to death. I should never even preserve this foetus in alcohol. And thou, my belly, if thou knewest how much I love thee since knowing thy goodness. What, wouldst stoop to carry such baggage as thou findest along the road? O too innocent belly, thou art unworthy of my selfish soul.
"What shall I say, o belly? thou'rt cruel, thou partest children from their parents. No! I love thee no longer. Thou'rt naught but a full bag, at this moment, o my belly, smiling at the nombril, o elastic belly, downy, polished, convex, sorrowful, round, silky, which ennobles me. For thou makest noble, o my belly, more beautiful than the sunlight. Thou shalt ennoble also the child of the Flemish vagabond and thou art worthy of the loins of Jupiter. What a misfortune! a moment ago I was about to destroy a child of noble race, my child who already lives in my beloved belly."
She opened the door suddenly and cried:
"Madame Dehan! Mademoiselle Baba!"
There was a rattling of doors and bolts and then the proprietors of Macarée's lodging came running out.
"I am pregnant," cried Macarée, "I am pregnant!"
She was sitting up in bed, her legs spread apart. Her skin looked very delicate. Macarée was narrow at the waist and broad-hipped.
"Poor little one," said Madame Dehan, who had but one eye, no waistline, a moustache, and limped. "After confinement women are just like crushed snail-shells. After confinement women are simply prey to disease (look at me!) an egg-shell full of all sorts of rubbish, incantations and other witch-spells. Ah! Ah! You have done very well."
"All foolishness," said Macarée. "The duty of women is to have children, and I am sure that their health is generally improved thereby, both physically and morally."
"Where are you sick?" asked Mademoiselle Baba.