The child came out of the stupor and immobility into which he had been thrown by the light of the lamp and the eyes of the old man. He began to cry. Perhaps he instinctively felt in his mother's eyes a caress which made it possible for him to complain. She held out her arms for him and said:
"Give him to me."
The old man began, as usual, to air his theories:
"You ought not to give way to children when they cry. You must just let them cry."
But he came and took the child and grumbled:
"I never saw one quite so ugly."
Louisa took the child feverishly and pressed it to her bosom. She looked at it with a bashful and delighted smile.
"Oh, my poor child!" she said shamefacedly. "How ugly you are—how ugly! and how I love you!"
Jean Michel went back to the fireside. He began to poke the fire in protest, but a smile gave the lie to the moroseness and solemnity of his expression.
"Good girl!" he said. "Don't worry about it. He has plenty of time to alter. And even so, what does it matter? Only one thing is asked of him: that he should grow into an honest man."