"Only enough to buy something for my poor child, who has had no milk for two days! only enough to save it from dying!"
"I have nothing in the world," said Madame de Livonne, with inexpressible anguish. The poor woman sat down on the ground and burst into tears. Euphemia, her heart torn with grief, clasped her hands and exclaimed, "Mamma, mamma, shall we leave this poor child and its mother to die of hunger? Would not that be worse than borrowing from Mathurine's money? We are still near the house; let me go and change the louis." Madame de Livonne cast down her eyes, and for a moment appeared to reflect.
"Euphemia," said she, "have you forgotten that as this money does not belong to us, it is the same as if it were not in our possession?"
Euphemia began to cry bitterly, hiding her face in her hands. The poor woman, seeing them stop, got up and again approached Madame de Livonne.
"For the love of God," she exclaimed, "and that he may preserve your young lady, take pity on my poor child!"
"Tell me," said Madame de Livonne, "have you sufficient strength to reach the town?" The poor woman replied that she had, and Madame de Livonne, drawing from her pocket the cover of a letter, on the back of which she wrote a few lines in pencil, told her to take it to the Curé of the town in which she resided, promising her that he would give her assistance. Euphemia, hearing the poor woman thank her mother, felt courage at last to turn to her her tearful face. The expression of her pity seemed to shed a gleam of comfort over the heart of this unhappy creature. She looked alternately at Euphemia and at her child, as if to tell him also to thank her. Euphemia just then remembering that she had in her bag a piece of bread, left from her breakfast, gave it to the poor woman, who went away loading them with blessings, for she plainly saw that they had done for her all that was in their power. They continued their journey: their minds were relieved, but they were serious. Euphemia could talk of nothing but the poor woman. "You see, my child," said her mother, "that there are sometimes terrible temptations in life."
"Oh, mamma! so terrible that I do not know how it is possible to resist them."
"By fully persuading ourselves that there is nothing truly impossible but a breach of duty."
"But, mamma, if you had not been able to write to the Curé, could you have made up your mind to allow this poor woman to die, rather than change Mathurine's louis?"
"I would rather have begged for her."