She became _enceinte_.
At first she doubted, she dared not believe it. But when she was certain
of the fact, she was filled with immeasurable joy, a joy that overflowed
her heart. Her happiness was so great and so overpowering that it
stifled at a single stroke the anguish, the fear, the inward trembling
that ordinarily disturb the maternity of unmarried women and poisons
their anticipations of childbirth, the divine hope that lives and moves
within them. The thought of the scandal caused by the discovery of her
_liaison_, of the outcry in the quarter, the idea of the abominable
thing that had always made her think of suicide: dishonor,--even the
fear of being detected by mademoiselle and dismissed by her--nothing of
all this could cast a shadow on her felicity. The child that she
expected allowed her to see nothing but it, as if she had it already in
her arms before her; and, hardly attempting to conceal her condition,
she bore her woman's shame almost proudly through the streets, exulting
and radiant in the thought that she was to be a mother.
She was unhappy only because she had spent all her savings, and was not
only without money but had been paid several months' wages in advance by
her mistress. She bitterly deplored having to receive her child in a
poor way. Often, as she passed through Rue Saint-Lazare, she would stop
in front of a linen-draper's, in whose windows were displayed stores of
rich baby-linen. She would devour with her eyes the pretty, dainty
flowered garments, the pique bibs, the long short-waisted dresses
trimmed with English embroidery, the whole doll-like cherub's costume. A
terrible longing,--the longing of a pregnant woman,--to break the glass
and steal it all, would come upon her: the clerks standing behind the
display framework became accustomed to seeing her take up her station
there and would laughingly point her out to one another.
Again, at intervals, amid the happiness that overflowed her heart, amid
the ecstasy that exalted her being, another disturbing thought passed
through her mind. She would ask herself how the father would welcome his
child. Two or three times she had attempted to tell him of her condition
but had not dared. At last, one day, seeing that his face wore the
expression she had awaited so long as a preliminary to telling him
everything, an expression in which there was a touch of affection, she
confessed to him, blushing hotly and as if asking his forgiveness, what
it was that made her so happy.
"That's all imagination!" said Jupillon.
And when she had assured him that it was not imagination and that she
was positively five months advanced in pregnancy: "Just my luck!" the
young man rejoined. "Thanks!" And he swore. "Would you mind telling me
who's going to feed the sparrow?"
"Oh! never you fear! it sha'n't suffer, I'll look out for that. And then
it'll be so pretty! Don't be afraid, no one shall know anything about
it. I'll fix myself up. See! the last part of the time I'll walk like
this, with my head back--I won't wear any petticoats, and I'll pull
myself in--you'll see! Nobody shall notice anything, I tell you. Just
think of it! a little child of our own!"
"Well, as long as it's so, it's so, eh?" said the young man.
"Say," ventured Germinie, timidly, "suppose you should tell your
mother?"
"Ma? Oh! no, I rather think not. You must lie in first. After that we'll
take the brat to the house. It will give her a start, and perhaps she'll
consent without meaning to."