At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in her arms the baby that the countrywoman was trying to tear from her. She ran towards the counter, and, throwing herself behind her husband, cried,
"Michael, defend your son!"
The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with a start.
"My son!" stammered he; "what son?"
His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed over his features.
"Robert," resumed he; "is it Robert?"
He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, but he tottered. The nurse approached him in a rage.
"My money, or I shall take the child away!" cried she; "it is I who have fed and brought it up; if you don't pay for what has made it live, it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I shall not go till I have my due or the baby."
"And what would you do with him?" murmured Genevieve, pressing Robert against her bosom.
"Take it to the Foundling!" replied the countrywoman, harshly; "the hospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food of its little ones."